


Stumbling on Innocence

by drop_an_idea_on_a_page



Series: Sua Sponte That Sh*t [7]
Category: Justified
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 31,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drop_an_idea_on_a_page/pseuds/drop_an_idea_on_a_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'All things truly wicked start from innocence,'" Tim recited. "That's Hemingway for you. Telling it like it is."  Raylan and Tim wade through the murky world of truth and justice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

  _Justice while she winks at crimes,_  
_Stumbles on innocence sometimes._  
_\- Samuel Butler_

 

It was just before 2am and Tim was awake and giggling. He'd wrestled himself out of a dream that he wasn't enjoying and had woken to something better, one of his favorite past times – listening to Miljana talk in her sleep. Tonight it was mostly Serbian, and though he hardly understood a word of it, it was still funny. He wanted to cry, it was so innocent.

His phone rang, broke the spell and she rolled over against him and went quiet. He pouted and reached over to the bedside table for his cell.

"Gutterson," he whispered.

"Tim." It was Raylan. "You busy?"

Tim pulled the phone away from his ear and slid carefully out of bed, grabbed a shirt off the floor and padded softly into the hallway in his boxers.

"Tim?"

"Hold on a minute," he grumbled, set down the phone to pull on his shirt. It was late fall and a chilly night.

"Tim?"

He put the phone to his ear. "What, Raylan?" He ran a hand over his head to calm his hair.

"Can you pick me up at the hospital?"

"No. Call a cab."

"Come on, buddy. It's the middle of the night. It's not like you have something else to do."

"Sleep?"

"You were awake when I called. I could tell. A late night drive might be just the thing to settle you down."

A face palm and a hand drag down to his chin, Tim gritted his teeth. He never said 'no', not to anyone, and Raylan knew it. Tim pretended to sometimes, tried it on for size – _no, Raylan_ or _no, Rachel_ – but they just waited for it to turn into a _fine, just give me a minute_. And it always did.

"Fine, just give me a minute."

"I'll meet you in Emergency."

Miljana never heard _no_ , either. She had called him a sap, lovingly of course, sitting at the table in the kitchen one morning teasing him, coaching him on the forming of the word. She pursed her lips, exaggerated the motion, mouthed _no_. He played along, the two of them trying not to laugh. "No," he repeated for her dutifully then ten minutes later he was agreeing to help her – help her friend move actually – on his one day off that week. She shook her head in defeat, said, "sap," lovingly of course.

And now Tim stood in the hallway, practicing again, mouthed 'no' at the now-silent phone then crept back into the bedroom and hunted around in the dark for the rest of his clothes. Putting one leg then the other into a pair of jeans, he caught himself repeating the word in his head – sap, sap, sap – idly wondering if it translated into Serbian.

* * *

"What happened to you?" Tim leaned against the wall in the Emergency triage area, one eyebrow sitting up awake. He counted the visible stitches on Raylan's face, did an inventory of the scraped knuckles and myriad bruises, formed a story in his head from the clues.

"I fell down a flight of stairs."

"Long flight," Tim commented.

Raylan, too, was doing an inventory. "Sidearm, one backup – or do you have a second?" He pointed to Tim's ankle.

"Knife," Tim corrected. "I left my second in the truck."

"Okay." Raylan started again, "Sidearm, backup, knife, badge." He, too, raised an eyebrow. "You ever get that girl pregnant, don't go to meet her at the hospital like this, okay? I asked for a ride, not an armed escort."

"Raylan, I'm not stupid." Tim paused, looked up at the ceiling. "Okay, so it's 2:30 in the morning, you've been in another bar brawl and I'm here dealing with it – maybe I am stupid." He shook his head. "But that's not the point. The point is, if these were serious injuries," he waved a hand at him, "or this was strictly Marshal business, it'd be Art getting the wake-up call not me. And if you just needed a ride home, you'd have phoned a cab." Tim was on a roll and Raylan let him finish. "So, the big question is, where _exactly_ am I dropping you off and should I have brought my rifle…or maybe some grenades?"

"I got an address on the asshole that threatened the witness in the Frankfort murders." Raylan presented his purpose like a cat smugly dropping half a mouse on the kitchen floor.

Tim wasn't impressed. "WITSEC works, Raylan, and you know it. They can't touch her now."

"Still, I got a tip. I'd like to follow up on it while it's fresh."

"Why don't you pass on the address to the guy in charge of the murder investigation and let me go home and get some sleep? I've got a busy day tomorrow... _today_." Tim rubbed at his eyes. "Including a court appearance first thing."

"I just want to go knock."

"Give me a break, will you?"

"We're just knocking."

"You mean _I'm_ just knocking. You're not rapping on anything with those knuckles."

"So that's a yes?"

Tim sighed, blinked wearily then threw his arms up in defeat. " _Fine_ , let's go knock."

Raylan grinned, stood and put on his jacket.

Tim led the way out. Looking over his shoulder he asked, "What exactly are you hoping to get out of this – a confession?"

"I just want to talk to the guy."

"You know, I looked up the definition of 'talk' in the dictionary, 'cause working with you, I thought maybe I had it wrong all these years. But no, there's nothing listed in Webster's under 'talk' that says anything about beating the shit out of people."

"Did you try the Urban Dictionary?" suggested Raylan helpfully.

"I'll bet it's the same there unless you submitted a definition."

"I'm tempted. It'd be handy to be able to point to it next time we have one of these conversations."

Tim halted mid-step, squeezed his eyes tight shut, "Shit, there's a _next time_?"

"Buddy, your imitation of Art keeps getting better and better."

"Life imitates Art, Raylan. That's why everyone listens when he talks – everyone but you."

* * *

The house was ugly, dark, uninviting, shifting in a troubling way on its foundation. It sat in an unkempt field a forty-five minute drive out of Lexington. It could be described as a country home in a real estate listing, if any real estate agent would ever be willing to list it.

A mattress lay in the front yard, torn, its guts spilling, a rusting set of rims were stacked to one side of the driveway next to a pile of old tires, and six vehicles in total, from a camper van to an old Gremlin, were scattered around the property. The backyard fence was a patchwork, some chain link, some old pressboard swelling with moisture and an attempt at a gate with proper wood slats. The garage door was mostly rust and peeling paint, and the paint was peeling on the frame too, and on the door frame, and any window frames that weren't covered over with plywood. A two foot spike embedded in the yard, a chain attached, advertised _dog_ , as did the piles of dog shit visible on the front walk in the dim spread of light from the bare bulb over the door. The smell completed the picture.

A sign read: _BEWARE OF DOG. BE AFRAID OF OWNER._

Tim wrinkled his nose, stopped at the edge of the road reluctant to take another step. "Fucking dog owners."

"At least this one has a sense of humor." Raylan pointed out the sign for Tim's amusement.

Tim didn't even smirk. "This place is depressing."

"My God, Tim, when did you get so sensitive?" Raylan teased and took a few cautious steps up the driveway wary of land mines. Tim followed, not daring to take the shorter route over the grass.

"Just how friendly do you think they're going to be when we knock on the door at this hour?" Tim asked, unclipping his sidearm. "Did you get a name?"

"Billy."

"Billy…" Tim stretched out the last syllable, rolled his hand hoping for more.

"Yep, Billy – you got it."

"So it might be Billy the Kid and he might shoot as soon as we manage to navigate through this mess. I don't want to die in a pile of dog poop."

Tim was getting peevish and Raylan ignored him, stopped in front of the garage and eyed the rest of his path in consternation. "Shit," he expressed their dilemma succinctly.

"Well, no shit."

"No, Tim, _shit_ ," he pointed. "And lots of it." Up closer to the house, he could see more.

Tim caught up. " _Big_ dog."

Raylan took his hat off and scratched his head, his face screwed up in distaste. "Come on, let's just go knock."

Before they could take another step the side gate opened and someone turned a hose on them. It was surprisingly good pressure for a country well and the two Marshals were soaked in seconds. Raylan turned to the attacker, was blinded by the beam of a flashlight. He held out a hand, a futile attempt to stop the deluge, yelled out angrily, "Hey, turn that off before one of us shoots you."

Tim had his sidearm out and must have looked serious about Raylan's threat because the water sputtered off.

"And the flashlight!"

The beam flickered down.

Raylan stared annoyed at their assailant, a tiny wisp of a woman in a beater and sweats, barefoot.

"Goddammit, what did you do that for?" he snapped, wiping at the water dripping into his eyes.

"Who are you?" she demanded, husky little voice. "What are you doing sneaking around my house at three in the morning?"

Raylan pulled out his Marshal's identification. "We're US Marshals. Just want to ask a few questions."

"At this hour?" She appeared even smaller with the bewildered look on her face.

"Yeah, Raylan," Tim piped in, "at this hour?" He was still holding his Glock level.

"Tim, put that away," Raylan ordered.

Tim flicked his eyes from Raylan to the woman and back again, lowered his weapon but held on to it.

"Tim," Raylan repeated the order with a look.

"It's wet. I'm going to let it dry."

There was a lot of space between each word in the short reply. Tim was telling him _no_ – a rare occurrence. Raylan let it drop, turned back to the woman.

"Ma'am," he started, trying to get her attention, but she was engrossed, watching Tim intently, nervously eyeing the water dripping off the muzzle of his Glock.

"Tim, please, would you…"

Before he could finish his sentence, a snarling dog, teeth bared, easily a hundred pounds, came running at them from around the other side of the house. Tim put it down with one shot as it lunged for Raylan.

At the sound of the gunshot, the woman dropped the hose and the flashlight and sprinted back through the gate. Tim followed her. Raylan paused a moment, looked at the dog, cursed, "Shit," and ran after them.

The fence, it turned out, was only a blind for the yard which was open to the forest beyond. Raylan stopped just clear of the back corner of the house, pulled his sidearm and cautiously turned in a circle, letting his eyes inspect the dark corners. It occurred to him that the dog had appeared rather suddenly and rather belatedly in the exchange. Someone other than the woman had to have let it loose.

Tim pulled up short when he realized Raylan wasn't running with him and cast a glance back to see what was holding him up. Raylan caught his eye and nodded for him to carry on, so Tim did, trotting after the woman, slowing down in the trees. He could hear her struggling in her bare feet through the undergrowth and followed the noise. Up ahead the forest seemed to glow suddenly in a weave of shadow and whiteness that looked unearthly. The moon was full tonight, hidden until now behind the trailing of clouds from yesterday's rain. Clear of its coverings, it cast its eerie light around the woods, shades and contrasts, like a black and white movie. It made Tim's job easier. He could see the woman clear as day but white-washed of color. She dodged around the trees then broke into an opening lit up like a stadium by the moonlight.

Tim picked up the pace, on her heels as she sprinted into a small crop field. As he cleared the tree line it suddenly registered what the crop was, at least the important one. He realized too that she had a plan, wasn't just running blindly, and more importantly, that she had friends. Three men were standing at the opposite end of the field against a shack, each with a rifle over his shoulder. The woman yelled out to them and Tim dove to the ground as they turned. He stayed down and wove his way quickly through the rows of dead corn, moving to the center of the plot to the marijuana plants waiting to be harvested.

He felt safer among the still-green pot, it rattled less than the dry corn, and he lay still listening. The men were splitting up, dividing the field. He pulled his phone and started texting Raylan, moving his thumbs urgently. He gave up before he sent it, figuring Raylan was getting the message loud and clear when the men started shooting randomly into the rows.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Raylan finished his sweep of the yard, nodded to Tim to carry on, intending to join him almost immediately but movement at the back door caught his attention and he crept cautiously toward it. The spring on the screen door was broken and the door lay flat against the side of house, open but not inviting. Raylan put his hand against the inner door and pushed gently. His eyes locked with another pair about knee high, wide and round as the moon now peering over the trees.

Raylan made a goofy face and smiled, not wanting to appear threatening, bent down. "Is your daddy home?" he whispered, lowering his gun quickly.

A tiny shake of the head, a tiny voice, "Mama went out."

Raylan nodded, trusting the open face. "You go on back in then, stay inside. I'll let you know when I find her."

"Okay."

A glimpse of pigtails and the door closed and Raylan jogged across the yard to pick up Tim's trail, sending out a silent prayer to fate asking that his partner not be feeling too twitchy tonight. He picked up the pace when he remembered the look on Tim's face standing in the driveway, drenched, the water dripping off his gun onto the gravel.

The first gunshot, Raylan jumped then swore, upped it to a full-out run, thinking tragedy. The second one surprised him, he stopped then swore again – not shots from a handgun, definitely not a Glock, maybe a rifle. The third one, he switched direction. Seeing the clearing ahead, he ran parallel to the tree line to come at it from a different angle than straight on. He could hear men's voices now, too many of them. He dialed 9-1-1 and whispered a hasty call for backup, inched forward and took in the situation.

The way the gunmen were circling the crops, it was obvious Tim was hiding in the weed. There were three armed men and the woman – not a problem for them, Raylan figured. The men were continuing to fire into the field, yelling and whistling for Tim to come out. Wisely, he didn't, or maybe he couldn't. Raylan couldn't see him to say for certain and was sifting through options when a cloud, a straggler, blanketed the moon, dimming the lights and providing an opportunity. He decided to let Tim know he had an ace in the hole.

"Federal Marshals," he yelled the phrase and all three men froze. "We have you surrounded. Lay down your weapons and put your hands on your head and no one gets hurt."

You could say it a million times, thought Raylan, and a million times you'd get the same response – mayhem. All three men turned at once and started firing in his direction but he was already moving well out of range toward the back. One of the men fell, wounded in the exchange and screaming his pain. Two left, Raylan counted.

He made it safely to the shack, stepped out around it behind one of the men, pointed his gun and said, "Hold it right there or I'll put one in your big head," loudly, again for Tim's benefit. "It makes a wonderful target."

Raylan was relieved to see Tim pop up among the marijuana, aiming at the third who was looking the other way still trying to figure out who shot his buddy.

"Both of you – drop your weapons. Hands up where we can see them," Raylan repeated calmly. "You too, miss." He nodded at the woman. "Do as I say and we'll make sure you get back to see your daughter. She's likely a bit upset by now."

* * *

Raylan and Tim stood in front of the house later. They'd handed over the scene to the local Sheriff and were now arguing over who was responsible for the one man shot that night, taken away in an ambulance with a bullet in his behind.

"How could I hit the guy in the butt when he's facing me?" Raylan argued reasonably.

"Had to be you, Raylan. I was lying in the dirt in a lush and dense crop of weed. And, no way they'd be stupid enough to shoot their own man, right?" Tim smirked as he spoke. "Seriously, I think you're holding out on me. You got a trick bullet. It'd be nice if you'd share. I can think of a lot of uses for a bullet that does a turn in midair."

Raylan considered it. "It'd get Art off my back. I could make it look like it's always you doing the shooting."

Tim popped that balloon. "Ballistics would get you."

"Shit, that's right," Raylan conceded.

The sun was up and warming them nicely, taking the edge off the chill from the soaking they'd received earlier. In fact, the Marshals were steaming. Tim chuckled at the swirls coming off Raylan's hat. Raylan shot him an irritable glare and pointed at the mud drying a lighter shade of dirty on Tim's jacket.

Tim looked down and shrugged, resigned to it at this point in his career. "You know what they say – when the shit hits, better learn to like brown. It's my new favorite color since working with you. I've redone my whole wardrobe."

The Sheriff called Raylan over to answer some more questions, his deputy furiously taking notes. Tim stayed on the driveway, wary about walking around too much. He looked down at the body of the dog and frowned, wondering if Art would count this against him.

He was distracted from his thoughts by a local deputy leading the woman out of the house, cuffed. He felt a tug of sympathy, knowing why they'd left her until last. The three men had been taken away an hour before but they'd let her stay with her daughter until Children's Services could send someone from Lexington. The little girl came out next, three maybe four-years-old, a caricature of cute, and ready for bed. She was squirming in the grip of the deputy who was carrying her and he finally knelt down so she wouldn't fall if she got loose. She got loose and made a bee-line for Tim, running behind him and grabbing his leg, wrapping her arms around his knee.

Tim tried to turn and get hold of her but she clung tightly and stuffed her face into his jeans. Raylan strode back over, a worried eye on his partner's reaction, but Tim just put a hand down on her head and mussed her hair.

"Watch it, now," he said, "I'm all wet and dirty."

She let go when he spoke, his voice low and calming, and held up her arms to be lifted. Tim dropped his head. "You've got to be kidding me," he moaned. She was persistent, bouncing, arms urgent. "Fine." He bent over and hoisted her up, frowning. She settled in, looking permanent, arms around his head, grabbing Tim's hair in handfuls and nervously kneeding.

"Your mama's gonna be mad at you, you're all dirty," she scolded softly, now up at eye level.

"I think you're right," Tim agreed, a fleeting image of Art with a wooden spoon popped into his head.

"Is Butch sleeping?" she asked, up close in his face, warm puppy breath.

"Butch? You mean the dog?"

She looked down, pointed. Tim looked to Raylan for help; he shrugged.

"No, he's dead," Tim answered finally, opting for the truth. He stopped himself before adding _I shot him_.

"Good," she stated, a sharp nod, what hair was still in pigtails bouncing.

Tim's eyebrows shot up in tandem with Raylan's.

"You don't like dogs," Tim stated.

"I don't like Butch," she confessed. "Mama left me and he growled so I shooed him out. He scared me."

"Yeah, he scared me, too," said Tim, commiserating.

The case worker from Children's Services had come up beside them during the exchange. She eyed Tim with obvious distrust.

"I'm a Federal Marshal," he stated defensively, glaring back.

She relaxed a little, gestured at his burden. "I suspect she's afraid of the uniforms. That's why she came to you."

"Not so concerned about dirt, huh?" Raylan spoke to the little girl and she hid her face on the other side of Tim's head.

"I don't like hats," she whispered.

"Yeah, me neither," Tim agreed, narrowing his eyes at Raylan. Raylan rolled his and waved Tim away.

Tim walked with the case worker to her car and handed the girl over then jogged to his truck and came back with a chocolate bar for her.

"Healthy breakfast," Raylan commented, when Tim joined him again.

"Doubt healthy's going to do much to improve her day."

* * *

"A weed bust? Well, that's amazing."

Art _did_ sound amazed, just not in a happy way.

"I didn't realize that you two had so much time on your hands that you felt the need to fill it up doing drug squad work. Definitely more important than a court appearance, Tim."

Tim looked down at his shoes.

"Lucky for you, the Judge thought you too vital to the proceedings and postponed it till next week."

Tim looked back up, bewildered, "Really?"

"No, not really," Art snapped. "You're just lucky. The defense lawyer got into a fender bender on the way in. You ought to get a reprimand."

Tim looked back at his shoes.

Art crinkled his nose. "Which one of you stepped in dog shit and dragged it into my office?"

* * *

Raylan disappeared after lunch, his patience used up. Tim was relieved – his was used up, too. The plastic divider didn't stop the waves of Raylan's frustration passing through, osmosis maybe, Tim figured, and he was getting tired of it. Raylan had taken note of the names and addresses of everyone at the pot farm and come up a blank for 'Billy' – no, Williams, no Billy Joes or Billy Jeans, not even a Wilhelmina, no one he could question for all his trouble hunting down the name.

After he left, Tim did a little hunting of his own and had something to cheer Raylan up when he got back.

"Billy," Tim said, resting his hands on the divider and his chin on his hands, "was the name she used when she was working here in Lexington as a prostitute."

He dangled the arrest report in front of Raylan. Raylan pulled it out of Tim's hand and watched amused as Tim slid back into his chair as if the report was the only thing keeping him balanced on the divider.

Raylan leaned back in his seat and dropped his hat behind him on the shelf, reading the report. "Why am I not surprised," he said, mostly to himself. "Huh, you called it, Tim. Billy _the kid_ – she was young."

Tim leaned over again, same pose, dangling another piece of paper. "She has a number of priors, including possession, prostitution, indecent exposure, yada, yada, doing the nasty in a car in a public alley with a guy named Marshall – got to love the name, wonder if maybe he's a relative of ours – Stanton."

"Stanton?"

Raylan sat up and grabbed that report as well and Tim did a repeat performance, sliding back into this chair, then up again with another report, dangled for an encore. He was enjoying himself.

"And this fellow, Marshall – it has a nice ring to it, don't you think? – Stanton has a brother, a half-brother, sorry, named…"

Raylan snatched the last report and scanned it quickly, said, "Shit. There it is."

"I don't think you're reading that right – it's Preston, not _shit_. Now, you've _really_ got to love that name – _Preston_."

"Especially since he's the man in jail awaiting trial in the Frankfort murders. Thank you, Tim."

Tim was back in his seat. "It's all so pretty," he summed up.

Raylan stood abruptly and picked up his hat. "Now why would you do all this for me?" he asked.

Tim looked over, cocked his head, drawled, "Unhappy-Raylan is annoying-Raylan. You were harshing my buzz."

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Raylan stewed on the elevator ride down, trying to work out how he was going to approach 'Billy' and dissuade her from making any more death threats without appearing too threatening himself.

It might seem a moot point, chasing this when she was already in custody, but Raylan had no illusions about equal justice – there was a good chance she'd only get time served for her part in the drug bust. She was so thin the DA would have trouble hanging anything on her. She was a wisp, looking like she'd crumple with the first rap of the gavel, a defense attorney's dream client. A flash of her recent clean record and a nod at the daughter, tired, adorable, dependent and on display in the gallery, and what judge wouldn't be lenient?

But give Billy a gun and a reason and you had a potential murderer. Raylan fumed as he thought about it, how people could so easily forget that the smallest hand could still pull a trigger. If he could get a confession, it would add weight to the charges.

Raylan came late to the case, now labeled The Frankfort Murders by a local paper with a flair for the dramatic. It was the nature of the job for a Marshal, being last in, just ahead of Correctional Services. Rarely would the Marshals initiate a criminal investigation – normally it was follow-up work, fugitive hunting, court security, witness protection, and it was protection duty that Art assigned Raylan when the lead witness started getting death threats. The witness was just a normal but brave woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. She'd seen the blood and the gun and the gunman, had gone to the police and a suspect was arrested and then the threats started.

Raylan was present when one of the threats was delivered by phone and it pissed him off. He hunted through the police reports, tracked down some peripheral characters and politely asked a question with just the tiniest hint of physical persuasion. The answer was 'Billy' and an address; the cost, a few stitches and a handful of bruises.

Now he was going to finish the job – ensure that Billy was no longer a threat. Only it would be so much easier if 'Billy' were a big, hairy, mean Frankfort thug.

"Shit," Raylan concluded as the elevator doors opened. He considered going back upstairs and asking Rachel to ride along, let her handle it.

Then again, maybe some sweet talking and reason would do the trick. Raylan headed for his car, hopeful.

* * *

Art caught sight of the back end of Raylan waltzing out of the office again. He stood up quickly to chase him down but remembered before he over-exerted himself that he was the Chief and that meant freedom to delegate as he pleased. He stopped in the doorway of his office and called over to Tim, "Where the hell's he going? I needed to talk to him."

Tim looked up, not for the first time regretting that his desk was situated next to Raylan's, shook his head. "You're losing it, Boss, if you think he actually supplies me with his itinerary."

"Don't play dumb with me," Art snapped, finger pointed menacingly.

"Wow," Tim exclaimed, widening his eyes, "I'm having one of those déjà vu things."

"Tim," – it was a warning.

"Okay!" Tim threw up his hands. "I was going to say – before you interrupted – I suspect he's going to talk to that woman we arrested this morning. He thinks she might be the one behind the threats against the witness in the Frankfort murder trial."

"But that's been handled. She's in WITSEC."

"That's what I told him."

"Well, at least it's actually Marshal business…sort of." Art worked his bald head to a shine, thinking. "I didn't get a chance to ask him about the stitches."

"Did you _really_ want to?"

Art frowned, said, "Go with him. Since you got yourself involved you might as well continue being involved. Stop him from doing anything stupid."

Tim huffed, "What do I look like – Superman?"

"Not without your cape, you don't. You forget it again? Now get going or you'll miss him." He turned and went back into his office, avoiding the peevish look and the angry body language and the follow-up griping.

"Yeah, I've got nothing better to do," Tim muttered.

Taking the stairs three at a time, Tim ran out the main doors of the courthouse and cut Raylan off pulling out of the parking lot. He slapped his hands on the car to stop from being run over as he threw himself in front of the Lincoln.

Raylan slammed on the brakes. Tim still ended up on the hood.

"Can I help you?" Raylan asked sarcastically after Tim slid off the car, opened the passenger door and got in.

"Probably not – unless you have a hot line to redemption." Tim buckled up.

When the car didn't start rolling forward immediately, Tim looked over; Raylan stared back.

"Tim, what are you doing here?"

"Art said: 'Go help Raylan intimidate that twig of a woman. I'm worried about him going alone. He might get hurt.'"

Raylan huffed, tipped the accelerator, turned onto the road muttering, "Probably not quite how he put it."

"Probably not."

They drove the next block in silence before Raylan broke first, saying, "This is ridiculous. I don't need a babysitter."

"So, let's stop for ice cream and you can ditch me again. I'm a big boy. I'm sure I can find my way back. Then I could finish _my_ work and get home in time for a beer and dinner and a nice snuggle on the couch with the one good thing in my life before I take that snuggling _upstairs_." Tim finished his frustrated ranting and sighed, "Of course Art would put me on prisoner transport duty _for life_. But I wouldn't mind some ice cream."

Raylan switched subjects. "Things good with you and her?"

Tim looked over, frowned at the question. "Yeah." It came out defensively.

Raylan nodded, feigning interest. He got the one-word answer he was hoping for and figured that would end any discussion for the drive. Minutes passed in blissful silence then Tim decided to be perverse and expand on his answer.

"So far, so good, I guess." The statement was heavy with doubt. Raylan glanced over and caught Tim fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket, looking uncomfortable. "I keep thinking it's too good, you know – that I owe a debt I can't possibly pay."

Tim was being unusually open. Something was obviously weighing on him and Raylan couldn't help himself, he was curious.

"Why would you say that?"

Tim shrugged. "Did you see it coming when Winona left?"

The sting from that night had faded some with a little help from Lindsey. Raylan had thought about it often enough in an unorganized and unproductive way when he had time, but he felt it fortunate that he didn't have much time lately for soul searching. He took a deep breath, allowed the question, answered it honestly, "Nope, never saw it coming. Then again, to be fair, I wasn't exactly paying attention."

"I keep expecting her to be gone one day when I get home."

"You give her reason to leave?"

Tim shrugged again.

"Buddy, with communication skills like yours, I'd say you have nothing to worry about."

Tim gave Raylan an impatient glare and went back to fidgeting with his jacket. "I guess I just can't think why she stays. Let's face it – I'm probably not so easy to live with."

Raylan thought that was an over-the-top understatement considering Tim cleaned his guns on the kitchen table, then he grimaced when a mental picture of his old motel room rose unbidden from his memory. It stopped him from saying anything insulting aloud – it would be hypocritical. He settled with, "I always thought I was pretty easy to live with."

"Apparently not."

"Apparently not." The two sat with that for a moment then Raylan said, "I'm still not completely sure what I did wrong – at least 'wrong' by her reckoning." There was a heavy pause before he continued, "But hey, Art's going on thirty-five years, so there's hope. I keep meaning to ask him what drug he slips in his wife's coffee in the morning." Tim snorted and Raylan added, "Seriously, got any other explanation for why she still puts up with him?"

"Do you think he'd share his secret if I asked?" Tim wondered.

"If he does, let me know, will you?"

"Okay," Tim responded around a yawn. "So what do you think girls talk about when they're stuck in cars together?"

"How to drug their boyfriends," was Raylan's suggestion, yawning in response.

"I'd give anything to infiltrate one of their discussions, find out exactly how they manage to deliver a drug just by smiling. They should sell that secret to the military. It's devastating."

It was Raylan's turn to snort. "Doesn't seem fair, does it?"

"Biological warfare is what it is," Tim grumbled. "I'm pretty sure the UN has a convention on biological weapons and women are disregarding it." He waved a hand. "Globally."

"But what sanctions could we possibly impose that would hurt them?"

Tim sighed, "Yeah, you got a point. It's hopeless."

The Marshals pulled into the parking lot at the women's detention center, shifted from personal to professional as they strode to the entrance.

"What are you going to say to her – ma'am, please don't bother the witness anymore?"

Raylan held the door open. "I haven't quite worked that out yet. I'll improvise."

"Oh great, this is going to be the highlight of my work week."

* * *

It was after 7pm when the interview ended, a full two hours of questions and answers and a different picture of a murder trial woven for them in the woman's tiny, husky voice. She was anxious to air her views. After she was led away by the guard, Raylan, completely confounded by her statements, stood staring at Tim.

"She believes what she's saying," Tim offered. "And she didn't deny the threats were from her."

Raylan didn't respond, just kept staring unfocused, his mind rewinding, replaying. He wondered how much of his confusion was because of her voice, an almost child-like quality to it, innocence at odds with her rap sheet. She claimed that Preston was a good man, not a cold-blooded murderer, involved in drugs but never in on the violence. He had saved her from prostitution, taken her off the streets, paid out her service though she was vague about how that worked. And now she assisted him with his business.

Raylan turned the questioning to the business then. She answered his questions when she could, but Preston kept her separated from most of it. She never met the people Preston dealt with, just knew that they were from Frankfort. She finished by saying emphatically that the witness Raylan was working so hard to protect was "just figuring to frame Preston and get away scot clean for murder herself. The two-faced, low-down bitch is trying to take over or something."

"How do you know that?" Raylan pressed.

"I heard talk," she said simply.

And Raylan, like Tim, believed she was being truthful as far as she knew.

"You spent time with the witness. What was your gut feeling about her?" Tim prodded, herding Raylan toward the door.

"I liked her," Raylan replied, finally focusing back on Tim. "Nice woman, seemed genuinely afraid. Accountant, educated."

They walked into the hall from the visitor's room and Raylan stopped and turned around, wheels spinning hard. "Why don't you do a little digging on Preston tomorrow? With such a good witness, I doubt anyone was very thorough with the investigation."

"No, Raylan – _no_. Why would I?" Tim asked irritably, thinking through his full day of work waiting and trying out another 'no.' "Just no, okay? This isn't even my case."

"I want to take a trip up to Frankfort and have a chat with Preston's business associates tomorrow. It wouldn't take you that long to pull a few reports."

Annoyed, Tim was only half-listening to Raylan's rationale. He was distracted by movement over Raylan's shoulder as a guard led another woman in jumpsuit and cuffs into the hallway. The two women stopped briefly to unlock another door and the inmate turned her head toward the Marshals. Tim recognized her instantly. It was such a shock that he couldn't hide his surprise and the two people facing him in that instant both reacted to it: Raylan started to turn to see what had caused the look; Loretta McCready shook her head, a slight movement, panic and a plea for Tim.

"Uh, okay, sure," Tim blurted out, reaching over and giving Raylan an awkward pat on the shoulder. "I'll take a look at Preston first thing."

Tim's behavior was so out of character that Raylan's attention was successfully diverted and Loretta and her guard disappeared into another room. Raylan pulled back and eyed Tim suspiciously.

"You'll do it?" he repeated incredulously.

"Yeah, sure," Tim confirmed, shrugging in defeat.

"What?" Raylan demanded.

"What, what? I'm just being a nice guy." Tim brushed past, continuing quickly down the hall to the entrance, anxious to get Raylan clear of the building.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

It was long enough past the end of the work day that the office was deserted when they returned. Tim hadn't said a word on the ride back which suited Raylan – he had some thinking to do. After he cleaned up and checked messages, Raylan slipped on his jacket and walked around to stand in front of Tim's desk, waiting for him.

"Oh, uh, don't bother waiting. Thanks, though," Tim said, waving Raylan out.

"You sure? I was going to go for a drink." He cocked an eyebrow in invitation.

Tim looked up, licked his lips and considered it. "Nah, I got a couple of things to finish up then I'm going home and…"

"Snuggle," Raylan finished for him, grinning, "Provided she's still there, of course."

"Yeah." Tim returned the grin, looking a little embarrassed about his earlier confession.

Raylan hesitated a second time at the door, turned back. "You know, she had a pretty good idea what she was getting herself into when she moved in with you. Better than most considering how you met."

Tim was finding the cover on the report in his hand fascinating but managed a curt, "Yeah."

He moved things around on his desk until he was sure Raylan had left then turned his computer back on, sending a quick text to Miljana while it booted up. He stared at the Marshal's logo on the login screen when it appeared, his hands hovering over the keyboard. He didn't want to know. He really didn't want to know. He logged in and typed in a name – Loretta McCready.

He read carefully for almost an hour, anything he could find on the system concerning the recent arrest. It was ugly – felony murder and firearms charges – usually a mandatory waiver in Kentucky. The attorney had put in the motion to have her tried as a youthful offender in adult court considering the severity of the crime and her past record. It was likely a done-deal before the District Judge had even pretended to consider it. And now Loretta was in adult lock-up awaiting her bail hearing. It was just the next step for her. Tim wasn't surprised, wasn't disappointed, wasn't upset. His lack of reaction unnerved him. The only feeling he could muster was annoyance, and even then only vague and only for the people who'd tried to help her along the way.

He had a buddy return from a trip to Rome once, on leave with his wife, with a story about a crazed man taking a hammer to the Pieta in St. Peter's Basilica. He told it in amazement, shaking his head, saying how he couldn't understand anyone willfully trying to destroy something so beautiful. Tim had agreed with him at the time. But enough of the world had run under his feet in the years between that Tim could now understand the crazed man. You see enough shit and looking at something beautiful just hurts.

Leaning back in his chair he pressed his fingers into his eyes and played out both sides in the argument running through his head. Tell Raylan; don't tell Raylan. There was no way in hell he felt qualified to make that choice. He couldn't even figure out why he'd prevented Raylan finding out for himself at the lock-up. He decided he'd talk to Art about it in the morning. He would know what to do.

He pulled up the file with the report that he had been working on before his field trip that afternoon, flipped open his notes and started typing. It was half done and he wanted to get it finished now that he was going to be busy doing research on Preston Stanton the next morning.

An hour later he tidied up, changed into sweats and runners, stuffed his gear into a knapsack and ran home. He meandered an inefficient route, stretching a fifteen minute jog into an hour trying to shake off the day's shadows before he got home. Slowing down in his neighborhood, he walked the last block to his house. He pushed open the gate and trudged up the steps then hesitated at the door, suddenly anxious. It opened from the inside and he let out a breath and pulled the screen door open to a smile and stepped in.

Miljana let her eyes wander, looking for details in his face and his movements as he unloaded and she intuited that it wasn't a good day. That meant loads of jokes and sarcasm tonight. There had been a landslide of jokes and sarcasm lately but no time to shovel through it and look for survivors. She would have to make time and soon, at least to prop up some supports and prevent the whole thing crashing down. She wrapped her arms around him, still hot from running. He protested that he was sweaty; she ignored him and lingered longer to make a point, ending with a comic book kiss accompanied by a loud lip smack. She took his hand and led him into the kitchen.

"Where did you go last night?" she asked, watching Tim fish a beer out of the fridge, open it and take a long pull. "I had to make my own coffee this morning. It was horrible."

"Aw, princess. What a travesty." His tin man sympathy produced a grin from her. "We busted open a weed operation," he explained in monotone, like it was an everyday occurrence. "It was entertaining."

"I didn't think that was in your job description."

"It's not. You know Raylan."

"Have you eaten?"

He shook his head and she started pulling together some leftovers.

"How was your day?" he asked.

She stopped what she was doing and turned to him abruptly. "Oh my God, it's happening. We're getting… _comfortable_." She raised a hand to her forehead, a little drama to amuse. "'How was your day', he asks and I despair. The romance is dead."

He set his beer down and grabbed her when she faked a faint. He took advantage of her vulnerable position and kissed her neck. She kissed him back rather heatedly considering she was supposed to be unconscious.

"You're a lousy actor," he stated and set her back on her feet.

"So are you. You keep acting like everything's fine, but I can see clearly it's not."

Tim looked for a clue to what she was talking about, faltered, "I just asked how your day was."

She ran both hands through his hair and down his cheeks, kissed him again, gave the food some more attention. "I had to break with a client. I recommended Edward for him. It wasn't working out with me."

She always found it difficult when that happened, little failures that ate at her. He tried to bolster her. "I find that hard to believe, you are so frickin' amazing. Why wasn't it working?"

"He kept trying to kiss me." She looked embarrassed.

"Oh shit, not _that_ again?" he joked.

She nodded, sighed, teased, "I really have to stop this bad habit of sleeping with clients."

"Habit?" That got his attention. He leaned against the counter and narrowed his eyes at her and asked sarcastically, "Who are you sleeping with now?"

"Just you still."

"And that's a _bad_ habit?"

"I stole your therapist away," she replied, regret-tinged humor.

His smile did a false start when he realized she was serious. "That's not the way I see it. I just don't have to make appointments anymore. I get to talk to you whenever I want."

"And only about whatever you want. It's not the same. Nothing's being accomplished."

"What do you mean – _nothing's being accomplished_?" He was feeling defensive again, either for her or for himself, he couldn't tell. "I hardly have nightmares. No daytime flashbacks at all. I still have that startle reflex issue thing…" He petered out and tried the smile again.

"That'll calm down with age, once you sprain something throwing yourself out of bed when the phone rings."

"Nice," he chuckled.

She allowed herself to smile. "But you still drink too much," she said, and he could hear that this was the start of a list.

He cut it off at one. "I do?"

"Yes, Tim, you do. I don't want you dying of liver failure before you retire."

He went to take another drink and stopped when he realized he was illustrating her point. He made light of it. "I think you're being optimistic. I always figured I'd die of something else before my liver gave out."

She looked confused. "Like what?"

"Gunshot wound?" he shrugged. "Car accident. Statistically both are way more likely."

She chewed on her lip. "You skew the national statistics in favor of liver failure."

He eyed his beer and took a noisy sip. "Maybe."

"And Tim?"

She'd managed to maneuver back to the list. He looked at her, gun-shy, ready to dodge and run.

"Why did you agree to go with Raylan last night? I know you were tired."

He wasn't expecting that. "Uh," he stalled, wondering that exact thing himself and not really having an answer. "I can't say no?"

"That's the presenting symptom. I have a theory on what's behind it."

He dropped his head, moaned, "Fuck. Why did I have to fall in love with a psychologist? I hate psychologists."

She looked away. "We weren't finished, you and I, when we started dating."

"Uh, yep, you're right. We were just starting."

"I love your obtuse act. It's my favorite. I mean the talking."

Tim wiped a hand across his mouth. He knew where this was going and he didn't want to discuss it.

"I'd like to recommend a couple of friends and you can choose one to see," she finished.

"No," Tim declined emphatically, and his tone took her back to when they first met. "I like talking to you."

She smiled. "You said 'no' – I'm so proud."

"God, the sarcasm…" He leaned over to kiss her again. "I'll talk to _you_. That's it."

"There's a reason it's not recommended."

"I can't start all over again, Milja, I can't." Serious for the first time that night, his plea got her attention. "I don't want to have to repeat it all out loud again. I don't have the energy to do that a second time with somebody else. Besides, you say yourself that everyone's different. Maybe this works best for me." He indicated a connection between them.

She slumped her shoulders, conceding the point. "Okay, we'll try it, but regular times, and if I say it's not working, you have to trust me."

"Okay."

"And we have to do it outside of the house. We'll start Saturday."

He took his dinner to the table. "We used to meet at the house."

"We weren't sleeping together then."

He reached over for her. "I like being at home. I'm comfortable here. We could use the spare room."

She frowned but let him pull her onto his lap. "There's a bed in that room, Tim. _No_."

He grinned. "I'm getting excited about therapy already."

"That's already one strike against you."

"Oh, come on, I was joking."

"No, you weren't." She smacked him. "Did you shoot anyone today?" she asked, being cheeky.

"Yeah, I shot some idiot in the butt. It was funny."

Miljana rubbed her forehead, a worried look. "Is this Marshal humor?"

Tim reacted defensively again, "Seriously, it was funny."

* * *

He was awake at 4am, a fading glimpse from his memory of the little girl up close in his face as he focused his eyes, her outline blurring into Miljana rolled up against him again for warmth, her breath mingling with the girl's. She said once that most of his feelings came out in his dreams. He hadn't thought about pigtails after setting her in the case worker's car, at least not consciously. Now he couldn't stop. He wondered how she was making out in a strange bed, whether they'd let her go home if her mother was released on bail, or more likely R.O.R. since Raylan had decided not to act yet on Billy's confession, or if they'd keep custody of her until after the trial. The Marshals Service, and he and Raylan in particular, had turned her life inside out in one reckless night. At least he'd taken care of the dog problem for her. He finally rolled out of bed, put his sweats back on and ran the empty sidewalks.

Tim had already left for work when Miljana came down later but there was a fresh pot of coffee waiting for her.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Preston Stanton was living up to Billy's description, a surprisingly slender file, just some possession charges and what amounted to a slap on the wrist for an insignificant grow-op bust a few years back – no history of violence, no recorded links to any syndicates or gangs, a small-time criminal. It was a huge leap to first degree murder but that didn't necessarily mean it didn't happen that way. Tim was perplexed by his findings and decided to acquaint himself with the investigation since he had the time, digging through what he could get his hands on until Art showed up.

Art was usually at the office before any of his staff, only occasionally taking second place to Rachel or Tim. This morning was one of those occasions. Unable to sleep after his run, Tim was well ahead of the pack, in at his desk by 6am. He had given up trying to form a soft way to hit Art over the head with his ethics question, couldn't settle himself enough to focus on his paperwork stack, fixed a pot of coffee instead and waded into the murder in which Raylan's witness was the co-star sharing the stage with Preston Stanton.

The scene was spectacular. Three men working for the Frankfort end of the Dixie Mafia had been gunned down eating lunch. It reminded Tim of _The Godfather_ – instant death on a red-checkered table cloth. It made a good setting for a true-crime novel. Eyes shifting from the mugshot of the innocuous Preston Stanton to the bloody photos on his screen, Tim tried to fit them together. Something serious had to have happened to drive Preston to it; either that or the witness was lying. Each option suggested another layer.

An hour and half later he left his note-taking and jogged down the block to get himself a second breakfast and a better tasting cup of coffee, one for himself and one for Art. He backed through the door into the bullpen, both hands occupied, and when he cleared it, he turned to see the Chief at his desk in a heated discussion with Raylan, also in early and sitting comfortably across from Art, clearly settled in for a long debate.

Tim eyed them, mildly annoyed, then changed his route and headed for his desk, deciding he could use the second coffee. Setting down the tray, he opened the bag he was carrying, unwrapped his breakfast sandwich and had half of it stuffed in his mouth before his butt hit the chair. Art looked up, a disgusted look for the chipmunk table manners, then motioned for him to join them. Tim eyed the two cups, pondering his options.

"Good morning," Art greeted, all fake chipper, when Tim walked in carrying the tray. "How suspicious of you to bring me a coffee. Got an envelope full of bills to go with it or maybe an apple?"

"They thought the gun was a fake when I ask them to empty the till and the apple wouldn't fit in the cup."

Art chuckled at the repartee, pulled the lid off his present and took a long appreciative whiff of the aroma.

Raylan reached out for the second coffee. Tim pulled it back, grumbling, "Do you really see that happening?"

Raylan pouted.

"Aw, sad face," Tim quipped then handed the tray to Raylan who grinned obsequiously at the offering. Tim jabbed a thumb to the exit. "Yeah, don't worry about it. I'll just go get myself another one." He turned to follow his thumb.

"Now hold on a minute," Art stopped him leaving. "Why the bribe? What did you screw up and how badly?"

Tim responded to the accusation with a disgruntled, "I didn't do anything. I just need to talk to you."

It was clear that Art didn't believe the denial and now he was dreading knowing but nonetheless curious. "Well, Raylan didn't bring me a nice coffee, so you get to interrupt. Talk away."

"Uh," Tim hedged, "it's personal."

"I don't mind," Raylan interjected, took a sip of his coffee and waved him on amiably.

"It's _personal_ ," Tim repeated, wondering in an obtuseness contest who would win – he or Raylan. "I'm going to go out again, get a coffee for me and when I come back you'll be finished here, right?"

Raylan shrugged, "Right."

"And then I'll talk about what I need to talk about when you're gone back to your desk with your _nice coffee_." He stressed the last bit, directed it at Raylan.

"Okay," Raylan replied, playing along.

"I think you're the one getting the bribe, Raylan," Art commented.

Tim took two steps out and stopped, turned around and poked his head back through the doorway. "Are you two discussing what Billy said about the murder suspect yesterday?" With a nod from Raylan as affirmation, Tim continued, "Just so you know, our buddy, the psycho-killer, Preston – every bit the man she described. It's a monster stretch for my imagination to put him behind the blood bath in Frankfort."

"You already checked him out?" Raylan glanced at the time on his phone.

"Yeah, I was in early and it didn't take long."

Raylan nodded, catching all the innuendo in the last part of the phrase, hard to miss with Tim putting a significant pause between each word.

The satisfied grin settling on Raylan's face and the scowl on Art's gave Tim the distinct impression that he'd just provided ammunition for Raylan's side of an argument. It was too late to back out now but he added a small qualifier, "I'll dig a little deeper later but, seriously, all indicators, the guy's a wallflower."

Raylan turned back to Art, punctuating Tim's summary with a pointed look and Art surrendered. "Okay, I guess it's our job to protect the integrity of the judicial system and our beloved WITSEC program in particular. Go ahead and look into the witness."

Tim walked out, a smirk on his face as he listened to Art's added orders for Raylan. "But keep me informed. _Informed_ informed – not, _oh-did-I-forget-to-mention_ informed. And Raylan, _try_ to be discreet."

* * *

Tim came back fifteen minutes later with his coffee, happy to see Art by himself, marched straight into his office and shut the door. He sat down on a chair in front of the desk then twisted a furtive glance through the glass to see if Raylan were watching.

"Personal, huh?" Art grimaced. "That worries me. Professional problems I can handle – I'd just retire early – but personal stuff..."

"Don't worry. It's not personal. I lied."

"Well, that's a relief. I think." Art leaned forward, attentive. "Okay, what is it then? You got me curious."

Tim pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and smoothed it out on Art's desk. It was a copy of an arrest report. He tapped his finger on the name typed at the top, drawing Art's attention there first, then at the charges underneath.

Art put on his glasses and read. "Aw, shit," he cursed, did a cursory sweep of the rest of it then rested his hand open on the paper, shielding himself from the news. "Dammit, why do you even have this?"

"She was at the lock-up when we questioned that woman yesterday. I pulled this last night."

Art looked angry, at a loss, let off a rare string of expletives, "Shit, shit, shit. Goddammit. Did Raylan see her?"

"No," Tim replied, "and she made it pretty clear to me she didn't want him to."

"Why not?"

"I have my theories, but they're really not pertinent," Tim replied, tone flat. "The question is, do we tell him? You know he'll find out about it, and I suspect he won't take it well if he finds out we knew and didn't tell him. But he's not going to take it well if we tell him, either. It's a conundrum."

The almost bored manner in which Tim summed up the shit storm brewing on the horizon had Art wanting to walk around the desk and strangle him. He refrained, sat back and rubbed at his temples, let his hands fall finally in his lap in defeat, "It's a _conundrum_? Jesus, Tim. A _conundrum_?"

Tim raised an eyebrow. "You prefer the word 'problem'?

" _Problem_? I was thinking more along the lines of _disaster_. I'm already up to DEFCON 4. Why did you even bring me into it?" he demanded angrily.

"Hey," Tim interrupted, "don't shoot the messenger. Better you're hearing it from me now than hearing it later from an irate DA or a judge saying Raylan's threatened him with a gun. But if you'd prefer, pretend I didn't say anything and then maybe Internal Affairs will be the guys getting the brunt of your bad mood."

"Okay, okay," Art calmed, moving his hands to pat both their anxieties down to a manageable level. "I was reacting…badly. I'm glad you brought this to me. Really. Though… _shit_."

Tim turned to glance at Raylan again.

"Stop doing that. You'll get his neck hairs going." Art sighed heavily and picked up the report, reading it through again more carefully. "So, they've got her in general lock-up?"

Tim nodded.

"Is it decided they're going to prosecute it that way?"

Tim nodded again.

"Maybe we can change their minds," Art said hopefully.

"Boss…"

"I know, I know. Not likely." He read through the report a third time, willing it to be different. "You and I should go have a chat with her, I think. When's the arraignment?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Okay, that gives us a bit of time. Raylan's out for the day. Maybe we can have something resolved before he's back. I'm going to make a few phone calls then we'll head down for a conversation with Miss McCready."

* * *

"Personal?" Raylan made a wry face over the barrier after Tim had sat down at his desk.

Tim didn't even look over, ignored him and picked up the phone, spoke clearly into the receiver, "Yes, good morning, I'd like to order some _none-of-your-fucking-business_." A pause, then, "That'll be delivery to the Lexington Marshals Office, desk of Raylan Givens. Oh, you already have the address?" He turned slowly as he finished, an annoyed glare for Raylan.

Raylan put his hands up, surrendering. "I was just concerned that maybe your girl had skipped on you."

"Nope," Tim replied brusquely, sorry he'd let anything slip about his personal life the day before.

"She's a saint, that woman. If she's missing one day, try heaven first." Raylan pointed up to give Tim directions.

Raylan's comment stirred a memory of the Pieta again. Tim had looked it up after hearing the story, stared at a picture of the statue on the internet one hot afternoon in Georgia. He wondered how it worked that once something was triggered in your memories it always did a few laps around your head before settling out-of-sight again. Michelangelo's Pieta was on its second leg. If someone asked what he was thinking about just then, and he told them – a marble statue of a woman cradling a grown man – they'd think he was lying or losing it, most likely leaning toward the latter.

"I'm heading up to Frankfort. You want to come?"

Raylan's question interrupted his mental ramblings and Tim took a minute to answer, collecting his thoughts. "Yeah, I would, but, uh, there's something I got to look after with Art this morning. You have a good time though."

Raylan stood up and gathered his things.

Tim reconsidered. "You thinking you need backup?" he asked, concerned. "Is that why you asked?"

"Nope, I don't think that'll be necessary," Raylan responded. "I'm asking questions, is all – questions that I suspect they'll be happy to answer."

"Let me know what you find out, will you?"

Raylan faked surprise. "Curious all of a sudden, are we?"

Tim shrugged.

"That little girl get to you?" Raylan focused his gaze on Tim, smirking, figuring.

Tim avoided eye contact. He appreciated how intuitive Raylan could be but not when he was focusing that particular talent at him. "Just let me know what you find out."

"Sure, okay." Raylan settled his hat comfortably, did a quick look around his desk for anything forgotten, then added, all innocence and idle interest, "What are you and Art up to this morning?"

"Has that _none-of-your-fucking-business_ not arrived yet?"

Raylan grinned, "Just asking. Got something to hide?"

Tim swung around to face him, head tilt. "He's going to hold my hand while I give blood. It's horribly embarrassing – I faint at the sight."

They locked eyes, Raylan's tongue in his cheek, he commented, "Amazed you made it through the Rangers with that debilitating problem."

"Fortunately I was color-blind." Tim didn't bother trying to come up with anything logical or believable.

" _Was_?"

"Miraculous cure."

Raylan snorted a laugh despite himself, said, "Uh-huh," wagged a finger and left.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

This moment was a repeat of yesterday's. All the best moments disappear, irretrievably, once they play out; only the worst ones repeat themselves. Tim felt like he was attending back-to-back performances at a comedy house, second day in a row, bad show. He wanted to laugh only there was nothing funny about it, nothing at all. The lighting in the hallway was different, it was brighter in the morning with the east sun, and it was Art facing him talking, not Raylan, but everything else was a repeat. He was standing in the same part of the hallway, looking in the same direction, feeling the same gut feeling, unable to pin it down, looking over Art's shoulder at Loretta being led away by a guard through a doorway, jumpsuit, cuffs. Maybe it was the orange that made it feel like slapstick. He kept his eyes fixed on the spot even after Raylan's girl had disappeared again, wanting to unscramble the confused feeling in his stomach while it lingered.

A door clicked shut behind him, the noise sharp like a gunshot in the bare hard hall, and Tim tensed but refused to turn and check the threat. He could hear footsteps approaching, unhurried, and willfully dismissed his training, lectured his anxiety – _you trust Art; Art is watching_.

And Art _was_ watching, looking over Tim's shoulder at whoever was walking toward them. He had purposely turned his back when Loretta was led away, facing Tim and talking aimlessly to distract himself. Unlike Tim, Art knew exactly what it was he was feeling at that moment.

It was lucky that Art was paying attention. Someone grabbed a fistful of Tim's hair and pulled, hard. He might have instinctively lashed out with a fist but Art saw it coming and reacted first, reached over quickly and stopped any retaliation, held Tim's arms firmly. Tim could only move his head at that moment and did, twisted, found himself face-to-face with pigtails. The other little hand grabbed his shirt and the woman holding her fought to keep the little girl in her arms.

"It's okay," Tim said, standing down and willing his heart to slow, holding her carefully. "It's okay, I got her." And she was up close in his face once again, puppy breath.

Art pulled his identification, flashed it for the woman, the same case worker Tim had crossed paths with at the house. She made the connection belatedly, turned to Tim and smiled.

"She doesn't forget a face."

"She doesn't forget a bad haircut," Art corrected. "This is the little girl from the house?"

Tim nodded, grimaced, regretted the movement. Pigtails had fistfuls of his hair in both hands now, like yesterday, kneading nervously.

"We were just visiting her mother," the woman supplied.

Art initiated the introductions among the adults then asked, "She have a name?" and reached a finger over to tickle her.

"Mary, at least that's the name on her birth certificate, but her mother calls her Phoenix, says it's symbolic. Everyone else just calls her _sweetie-pie_."

"She'll grow out of _that_ one," Art mused wryly. "I know from experience."

"Father?" Tim asked, not really hopeful.

"There's no one listed officially," the case worker explained and nodded toward the door. "Are you two leaving?"

When Art answered in the affirmative she suggested they head out together. It was convenient.

Pigtails breathed in Tim's ear, "Are we going home?"

"Not yet."

She dropped her head down on his shoulder and effectively banished Loretta from his thoughts.

"So no father in the picture?" Art prodded, picking up the conversation when they were outside.

The case worker rolled her shoulders to ease her tension, answered, "Billy claims it's a man named Preston Stanton. I'm going to start looking for him today."

Art turned to Tim, "Isn't that…?"

"He's awaiting trial in another case," Tim finished for him, directing the information to the woman. "Contact me and I'll send you his lawyer's number." He settled the girl in the car and fished out a business card for the case worker. "It's not likely he'll be out anytime soon."

She looked at the card without registering anything, said heavily, "Well, thanks, you've saved me some work." Pigtails was staring at Tim through the window. "She's associating you with the house – probably hopes you'll take her home."

Tim turned away abruptly and walked back to Art's car. Art followed and tried to lighten the air around them a little. "You'd make such a cute daddy," he teased.

His jibe was rewarded with a glare. "I have a rifle, and I know how to use it."

"You snipers are so adorable," Art responded cheekily, hoping for a smile. He was disappointed, pulled his backup. "Want to stop for coffee?"

* * *

They actually stopped for coffee. Art lucked in with a parking spot out in front of his favorite diner and Tim took advantage of his boss's generosity with government time and ordered some food. They both held their mugs hovering at chin level, each man with a blank stare and a full slate of thinking behind it.

Tim's food arrived and broke the trance. They both started talking at the same time.

"Did she seem…?" Art queried.

"Something's scaring her," Tim stated.

"…frightened to you?" Art finished but Tim had already answered his question. "She _was_ scared, wasn't she?"

Tim nodded. "She lacked her usual…" He searched for a word, ended with, "…disdain."

"You know, Tim, that's just a cover."

"Yeah, I know." Tim was familiar with masked feelings. He also knew how shaken she'd have to be to not be able to keep it up.

"I don't see we have any options here," said Art. "I want you to drop everything and dig through Loretta's life since she was moved to Lexington. Report only to me. Don't let anybody know what you're doing. Especially don't let Raylan know what you're doing." He released another sigh in a long string of sighs. "Maybe we can salvage this for her."

Tim figured a bullet might do the trick but kept his thoughts to himself. Art was doing that thing, frowning, looking at him like he knew what Tim was thinking and disapproving.

"Are you okay with this?" Art questioned.

Tim considered his task, where to start, dismissed the foster home as likely a useless stop, decided to talk to someone in the LPD Narcotics Unit first. He paused between forkfuls. "Is this official Marshal business?"

"Not even close. Consider it preventative if it makes you feel better. I don't want it _becoming_ official Marshal business." Art watched Tim eating. "You can refuse." He waited another bite. "How's your pie?" he asked, not really interested.

"Sweet," Tim answered and Art thought it cryptic.

He signaled the waitress for more coffee.

* * *

Raylan sat in his car, a grimace and a huff, eyeing the RV. He hated conversations with Wynn Duffy but it was the right place to start and it was never hard tracing the man, just put the word out and someone, state trooper or LPD, would text him a current parking spot. Today, Wynn Duffy was in Lexington – convenient for Raylan – and it was worth the stop, undesirable as it might be, because Duffy could just possibly save him a trip up to Frankfort.

Raylan gritted his teeth, exited the car, knocked on the door to the RV. Big-and-tall man answered, said something disparaging about Marshals. Raylan grabbed him by the overdeveloped forearm and yanked hard. Off-balance, bent forward on the last step, he fell hard, out of the RV and onto the pavement. Raylan walked over him into the entryway and up the stairs, shut the door and locked it.

"Raylan." Wynn Duffy stood up and blinked, surprised. "It might have been nice if you had called first. I could have tidied up, whipped up some refreshments."

"Mr. Duffy," Raylan replied, simple yet threatening.

"It has been quite a while," Duffy continued. "I was beginning to think you didn't care."

"Oh, I care…to avoid these conversations as much as possible."

"And which conversation exactly are we having today?" Wynn Duffy smiled his Joker smile and twitched his eyebrows.

"Preferably the short one." Duffy held his smile in place and Raylan advanced fearlessly. "What do you know about the shooting up in Frankfort?"

"Which shooting would that be?" The smile didn't move.

" _The_ shooting." Raylan wasn't giving an inch.

"The Frankfort Murders, I assume?"

"Hard to miss. Been all over the news."

"Yes it has. It made quite a splash. I can tell you what I've read, if that would help." Duffy had made an art of mixing sycophantic with evil.

"I already read what you read." Raylan pushed his hat back and finally returned the smile, as cardboard as a pizza box. "I'd like to hear what you've _heard_."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're expecting of me."

"Well then, let me be clear. This is not a shake down. Whatever bad thing you've done recently," Raylan waved a hand, "I'm not interested today. I'm just looking for some information."

"Ask away then, Raylan, but I doubt I can help you."

"What can you tell me about Preston Stanton?"

The eyebrows twitched again, and that was the beginning of another conversation.

* * *

Big-and-tall man stepped back cautiously when he saw the identification. Tim frowned, noted the way the bodyguard held his right arm protectively, the scrape on the side of his face, took a guess, "Deputy Givens was by today?"

Duffy spoke from farther back in the RV. "Who is it?"

"A different Marshal for a different conversation," Tim drawled, loud enough to be heard.

Duffy's face appeared behind his man and he patted the wide shoulder. "I suggest you step outside before you fall and hurt yourself again. And Deputy…?" He waited for a reminder.

"Gutterson," Tim supplied.

"Deputy Gutterson. Why don't you step inside?"

When the exchange was complete, Duffy prodded, no clever preamble, no fake smile for the junior Deputy, "A different conversation, you say? What about? And make it quick, my favorite soap opera starts in five minutes." He picked up a remote and turned on his television.

"I need some information on the shooting."

"Talk to Raylan, I told him everything I know."

Tim looked confused, "About the Frankfort murders?"

"Duh, yes."

"Oh yeah, well, I'm here about a different shooting – the one involving some of your product pushers right here in Lexington this past week."

Tim was pleased to see that he'd caught Duffy off-guard. "None of my home-security sales staff has been involved in a shooting, Deputy Gutterson."

"I think we're done with that little pretense."

"Perhaps you are, Deputy, but I'm not."

"Loretta McCready – she's selling your boss's product and I know you keep an eye on its distribution in Lexington. What happened that day? Someone try to muscle in? Was it a robbery gone bad? Hot-headed drugged-up stupidity?"

A torpid reply, "I'm sorry, who's Loretta McCready?"

There was no warning – even Tim didn't see it coming – and Duffy was on the floor trying to staunch the flow of blood from a broken nose. Tim managed to get a hold of his escaping anger, wrestling it to submission before it could do any more damage. He used the fistful of Duffy's shirt he had in his left hand to haul the man off the floor rather than pin him down and finish the job. He wanted to, badly, and Duffy could see it in the exacting, forced stillness present in the posture of the Deputy he'd misjudged this afternoon.

And that was the beginning of a different conversation.

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

Tim decided he was done for the day after his conversation with Wynn Duffy. He trudged to his car, afraid of what might happen if he were provoked again and so gave Mr. big-and-tall lots of space as he passed. Distracted, he blew through a stop sign, pulled over to pull himself together, sat staring out the windshield. Eventually he fished for his notepad and spent a few quiet minutes writing out any pertinent information he could remember from his time with Duffy. He looked at the illegible scrawl when he was done, his hands still shaking slightly, figured what the hell, he could decipher it and that was all that mattered. He'd learned what he'd needed to learn, that Loretta was tied in to the Frankfort heroin chain, that the shooting wasn't planned, that someone was threatening her. His next step was to go back and talk to Loretta again and he just didn't have it in him – not today. Besides, she might want a lawyer present for that discussion. Instead, he headed back to the courthouse and upstairs to report in. He needed a drink.

The reports he'd requested from the investigating officers in Loretta's arrest were stacked on his desk. No one had bothered to read the instructions he'd sent along with that request asking for the files to be handed directly to the Chief Deputy. The name Loretta McCready was on top and obvious, in view for anyone to read. He cursed and stuffed the papers out of sight, slammed the drawer then headed in to see the bartender.

Art had been watching his deputy since he arrived, got up before Tim sat down, poured and distributed. He'd noticed the same forced stillness in Tim's demeanor that had Duffy eagerly cooperating. Art knew what it meant and how best to deal with it – a shot of bourbon and a calm voice.

"There's nothing much else we can do today about Loretta," Art said, light tone with heavy news. "I spoke to the judge, the DA's office, her lawyer. We're not going to be able change anything in the arraignment tomorrow but maybe we can come up with something for an appeal." Art took a sip of his drink and studied Tim's face. "You and I can go over what we've got in the morning. Go home, unless there's something you want to talk about before you go?"

Tim licked his lips, downed his drink, stated, "I hit someone today."

"Oh God, tell me it wasn't with a pool car."

"Nope. With a fist."

"Oh, is that all?" Art joined him on the couch with a comic groan while he stretched out his legs. "We all hit someone someday in this job. Am I going to hear about it?"

Tim shook his head, all contained motion.

"You okay, Tim?"

Tim nodded.

"Another?"

Tim nodded again. Art poured.

"I didn't even know I was angry." Another drink, another burst. "How am I supposed to watch out for it _if I can't even see it?"_

Art chewed his lip. "I think that's a question for that girl of yours."

Tim finished his drink and left, took Art's advice and packed up early, a repeat of yesterday, gear stuffed in a knapsack and an extended version of his route home at a grueling pace. The house was quiet when he arrived and he paced the floors then cleaned his weapons out of habit not necessity and started dinner. He gave in eventually and broke into a new bottle of bourbon before Miljana came home, poured a follow-up to Art's offerings and sank onto the couch.

She walked in a half hour later and he wanted to start yelling, not at her, just in frustration with himself. The air was thick with it. She took off her jacket, eyeing him; he studiously avoided her gaze. She continued undressing until she was wearing very little. It worked to get his attention and she walked over, pushed him down on the couch and crawled on top of him.

He submitted, frowning. "No wonder your clients keep trying to kiss you."

She ignored him, started working on his buttons. "This is better than alcohol for relaxing," she whispered, smelling the bourbon on him.

"This is _way_ better than alcohol. But I can't keep you in a drawer in Art's office."

"That would be weird."

"Uh-huh."

"Bet you can't get all warm and cozy after a drink and talk to your bottle about your shitty day."

"Sure you can. It's just maybe not quite as satisfying. A lot less sarcasm."

She bit him.

"Ow. Same bite, though." She giggled. Tim slid his hands up over the warm skin of her back and into her hair, grabbed fistfuls and started kneading. It felt good.

* * *

The next morning Tim was in early again to speak with Art. Distracted texting, he didn't notice the cowboy hat until he was through the Chief's door.

"Shit, Raylan," he exclaimed finally looking up, "I feel like I'm in a bad remake of _Groundhog Day_. What the hell are you doing in early two days in a row?"

"Good morning, Tim. Nice to see you, too," Raylan replied.

"Are you letting him sleep on your couch?" – this to Art, then to Raylan, "You giving up on that bar finally?"

Raylan shook his head slowly. "I'd miss the sports channels."

"Not to mention the beer on tap in his kitchen," added Art.

Tim gave Raylan a sly look. "Go down nice with eggs for breakfast?"

Raylan returned the jibe. "Why don't you come over Saturday morning and try it. You can tell me how tap compares to _your_ usual – bottled beer with eggs."

"Actually, I'm strictly a bourbon guy before 10am."

Art interrupted, waving his arms, "You two do realize that Internal Affairs probably has this entire office wired."

"They're welcome to join us," Raylan offered kindly.

Tim grinned at the thought. "Might loosen them up a bit." He pointed in the direction of Art's supply, a concerned look for his boss. "You think maybe they got you pouring on camera?" he whispered.

"It's special stealth bourbon – that is," Art replied nodding at his drawer.

"Can you get me some?" Raylan and Tim spoke in unison.

"Sold to Bureau Chiefs only, sorry," Art said smugly. "Now, can we get on with business?" He waved Tim to the empty side of the couch. "Sit. Raylan, bring him up to speed on Preston Stanton."

"Why?" asked Raylan, irritable. Reporting twice in one day seemed a waste of time.

"Because, sweetheart, you dragged him into your case. Now you're stuck with him."

Raylan shot a contrite glance over for Tim's benefit. "Sorry, buddy."

Tim shrugged, "I could've said no. And, what the hell, I'm curious."

"He's curious 'cause he's got a new girlfriend and she's entangled in your case," Art teased. "About yea high," – his hand disappeared down behind his desk – "pigtails, cute as a button."

Raylan looked back over at Tim, said, "A bit young, don't you think? Even for you."

"You're both just jealous that I get the smartest and best-looking ones."

Raylan snorted. "Just what's that supposed to mean?"

"Preston Stanton, Raylan. Go," Art ordered.

Preston Stanton," Raylan obliged, "is a satellite supplier of weed to the Dixie Mafia – talented, like Coover Bennett was supposedly, at knowing _good_ when he smokes it, smells it, rubs it between his toes or whatever. Duffy says Preston also has a good business head and he was invited up to Frankfort that fateful day on Duffy's recommendation to do a job interview, more responsibility, more money, get himself 'in.'"

"Guess he didn't get the job," Tim commented.

"No, apparently shooting your interviewers is bad form these days," said Raylan.

"Why would he shoot them then?"

"That's the million-dollar question."

"What's the DA's angle?"

"Territorial dispute."

"You're not buying it."

"Not after talking to Duffy, I'm not. He says Preston is reliable, not ambitious, a level head. No experience with the heroin trade but Duffy saw lots of potential in the man. I went to talk to Preston – he's the kind of guy you'd trust to fix your car."

"So, not the type to take on the Dixie Mafia unless he has some personal shit with them, or some pretty heavy backers," mused Tim.

"And you said yourself he has no affiliations."

"You trust Duffy on this?" Art interrupted.

"Yeah, I do. He was eager to talk – a bit like Billy. I think he wants to see Preston innocent to save face. And Duffy, well, he's a slime ball but he's a _smart_ slime ball."

"I'll look harder into Preston," Tim offered. "But, I don't see it. Gunning down three middle men – it just doesn't get you anywhere."

Art was watching the exchange, sat forward and said, "Unless you're the DA, then you get a slam-dunk murder trial with a good witness and some good press for a change."

Raylan nodded, summed it up, "So, maybe Preston does have heavy backers, but maybe, too, he's just a patsy – wrong place, wrong time."

"We're nowhere on this, are we?" Tim moped.

Art sat back again, considered their options. "Well, maybe we should let the DA have this one."

Raylan examined his hat carefully, flicked off a piece of lint. "No, something ain't right, Art. I know I always say that but... The boys in Frankfort were tight-lipped and tense. And there was a man there that no one bothered to introduce me to. Didn't look much like the hired help."

"You recognize him?" asked Art.

"I would if I saw him again."

The three Marshals pondered the thin string of clues.

"What about the witness?" Art prodded.

"Well, either she's lying or she saw it wrong or she saw it right and I'm reading Preston wrong."

Tim asked, "Anything on _her_?"

"Squeaky clean."

Raylan passed over a folder. Tim opened it and read the single page of notes – an accountant in her mid-thirties, moved to Lexington a year ago from New Jersey, a photo, and that was everything.

"Why did she move?" Tim queried.

Raylan shrugged.

"Odd move, New Jersey to Lexington. Business?"

Raylan shrugged again.

"Can I dig?"

"Knock yourself out."

Tim stared at the picture of the witness and Raylan continued to study his hat for a few minutes.

"Well," Raylan stood finally, said, "I'm going to drop in on Billy's arraignment – she's due up at 10:30 – then I'm going back to Frankfort, have another go hopefully without the mysterious guest hampering the party."

Tim and Art exchanged a panicked look. "Why don't I go to the arraignment?" Tim offered.

"Sure, if you don't mind. Want to see your girlfriend again?"

"Yeah, that's right."

* * *

Tim slid onto a bench at the back of the gallery in time to listen to the reading of the charges against Loretta. She looked tired and small and there was nothing to be learned from it for him. He was there mostly to ensure that Raylan was not. With a half hour to kill before Billy's first appearance, Tim walked the block to buy a coffee and something to eat, came back and sat on the bench outside the courtroom next to the case worker and Mary. They both smiled for him and he handed pigtails one of his cookies. Billy was released on her own recognizance, as Raylan predicted, with a promise to return for her trial date.

Tim stood outside the detention center later. Pigtails had wormed her way back onto her perch and had a choke-hold on her Marshal. The case worker watched amused, asked him his thoughts on Billy's charges.

He loosened the arms, and replied, "She'll probably get time served."

He and Raylan had already decided to put in a good word for her, play down her part in the events from that night, and Tim offered, like it wasn't his plan all along, to drive Billy and her daughter home.

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

"We need to tell Raylan."

Tim, a little bleary-eyed, was looking intently at Art from the doorway of the office. He'd spent the rest of the day after dropping Billy off alternating between sifting through the information on Loretta and digging through databases and networking his contacts for anything even slightly askew about the witness.

He'd found a little something on both women at the same time. He leaned on the doorframe, tapping his leg with the item in his hand, impatient. "Art?"

"We need to tell Raylan what?" Art didn't lift his eyes from the form he was filling out.

"About Loretta."

"You'd better give me one hell of a good reason," Art responded then looked up when Tim walked over in front of the desk.

"You asked for it – one hell of a good reason."

The paper almost slid off the desk onto Art's lap, tossed a bit too forcefully for the casual air Tim was trying to maintain. Art slapped a hand on it, stopping it, lifted it closer for a better look. It was a poorly-executed surveillance photo of Loretta on a street corner in Lexington. The focal point was off. Loretta and the man she was speaking with were blurry; the images behind the subject were in focus, a car on the road, and sitting in the car, a woman.

"Is that the witness?" Art stood up abruptly, held the photo facing Tim, pointed to the car. "Is that Raylan's witness?" He voice ratcheted up the second time.

Tim answered with a level stare.

"Holy shit." Art sat back down. "That's a hell of a good reason. Where'd you get this?"

"Narcotics. They've been trying to put together an association tree for the dealers in the city. Lousy photographers."

"It can't be a coincidence," Art said, shaking his head slowly. "It can't. You need to talk to Loretta again, and with Raylan this time."

Tim nodded, already his plan. "He's probably still up in Frankfort. I thought I'd go have another chat with Duffy in the meantime, see if he has any idea about the connection."

Art stared at the photo, thinking, then reached for the phone, said, "I'll set up the interview with Loretta." He checked the time. "Tomorrow morning will have to do."

* * *

Tim pulled into the parking lot near Duffy's RV, cursed out loud and wondered how he was going to explain his presence to the angry Stetson striding purposefully across the pavement to meet him. Raylan got to Tim before he could come up with anything plausible, yanked open the door and hauled him out of the car.

"You knew," Raylan said, low and intense, up close, "And I gotta hear it from _Wynn Duffy_?"

Tim took a deep breath, let it out. "Knew what?" He decided he'd better not assume.

"Don't you start, Tim. Everyone I've talked to this last couple of days has been flat-out lying to me about something or sneaky lying by leaving something out. And I think what you know puts you firmly in that last group. You should have told me!"

"There's lots of things I should have told you, Raylan. I should have told you _no_ when you asked me to pick you up at the hospital. I should have told you to go fuck yourself when you…"

Tim saw it coming, did nothing about it and let Raylan land a hard one – it was good for that brief time to feel innocent and wronged. When it was done, he stayed down, leaned back against the car, arms crossed, closed tight. He watched as Raylan paced, unsure of himself. It was worth taking the punch to see it.

The tension eased off a little, the pavement eating it up step after step, then Raylan stopped finally in front of Tim. Tim looked up, cocked his head.

"What?"

"Why the hell didn't you tell me Loretta was in trouble?" Raylan growled.

"I took it to Art – Art told me not to. For the record though, I had already made up my mind not to tell you before I talked to him."

"Well, why didn't you just say Art told you not to instead of taking the hit?"

"Because you were pissing me off."

"That makes no sense."

"It does if you think about it."

They glared at each other, mutually annoyed.

"How did you find out about her?" Raylan asked, anger waning and wanting to get on with fixing it.

"Saw her at the lock-up the day we went to see Billy."

Raylan thought a minute then huffed, putting it all in place. "And her arraignment was this morning, 'round the same time as Billy's?"

Tim didn't bother answering.

Raylan swore, rubbed at his forehead. "How bad is it?"

"Felony murder."

"Jesus." Raylan's other hand came up to join the first and he covered his face. A world's disappointments came across in an anguished sigh then he looked down at Tim and offered him a hand up. "Sorry, I hit you," he mumbled pulling Tim to his feet, then another burst of anger, "What is it with you and Loretta? You keep stumbling over each other and yet I'd swear neither of you could care less. What is your fucking problem?"

Tim gave him nothing, spat out some blood and ran his tongue gingerly under his bottom lip.

Raylan threw up his hands and paced again. He stopped and turned, pointed at the ground. "What are you doing here?"

"I found something interesting. Thought I'd ask Duffy a question or two about it. Seemed as good a place as any to start."

Raylan narrowed his eyes. "Does it concern Loretta?"

He got a shrug for an answer and gritted his teeth, angry at the lack of emotion in Tim. He wanted to hit him again, instead he snarled, "Well then, what are we waiting for? Let's go chat with him. Maybe you can break his nose again." Raylan turned his back and took a step toward the RV.

"Wait, Raylan," Tim stopped him. "There's something I think you should see first – if you're calm enough to handle it." He reached into the car and pulled out a folder, opened it and passed Raylan the photo he'd shown to Art earlier.

Raylan snatched at it impatiently, stared unseeing at the black and white. Tim could read it in his face, the point when Raylan was able finally to focus on what he was looking at, the recognition. "What the fuck? That's… Where'd you get this?" Raylan demanded then interrupted the answer, "Oh, fuck it. I don't care where you got this. What other shit you hiding?"

"I only just found that this afternoon. That's why I'm here. Art's setting up an interview with Loretta tomorrow for me and you to talk to her."

"You and me?" Raylan indicated between them, puzzled.

"We were going to fill you in when you got back from Frankfort." Tim reached back into the car, uncapped a water bottle, rinsed his mouth and spat again. "Asshole," he breathed.

"Were you going to show this to Duffy?"

"Not sure. I hadn't thought that far ahead. Figured I'd see what I could get out of him first."

Raylan was running with it now, running through the possibilities, forgetting his anger and thinking like a lawman. "Maybe we should keep this a secret for now." He looked at the photo again, ran a hand under the front of his hat and tugged at his hair. "Do you get the feeling like we're walking blindfolded through a snake pit?"

"I'd've said 'mine field' – snakes don't scare me so much."

Raylan eyed Tim's swelling lip. "You okay?" he grimaced.

"Fine."

Raylan nodded. "Okay. Let's go have another discussion with Mr. Duffy."

"Maybe it'll be amusing," Tim snarked, following Raylan back to the RV. "Might get my mind off my loose tooth." He was working at it carefully with his tongue, frowning.

"Shit, Tim, stop playing with it."

Raylan raised a hand to knock at the door but Duffy opened it in anticipation. He'd been watching them out the window.

"Gentlemen," he greeted, tone a bit nasal. "I was enjoying the fisticuffs. I hope you didn't stop on my account."

* * *

"Sincerely, Raylan, I'm a busy man. I don't have time to keep track of the petty problems of street thugs."

"So who does, then? Give me a name."

Duffy maneuvered through a magnificent shrug then turned his attention to Tim. "That looks like it hurts. Can I get you some ice?"

"Sure, please."

Raylan glared at Tim and Tim threw back a peevish shrug, less eloquent than Duffy's and much more to the point.

Duffy made an elaborate show of putting some ice in a dishtowel and handed it over to the younger Marshal.

"Thank you," said Tim.

"You're quite welcome," Duffy echoed the pleasantries. "You're lucky I had any left. My assistant and I went through quite a bit yesterday."

"Are you two finished playing Chip and Dale?" snapped Raylan.

Duffy answered, "Where were we?"

"A name?"

"Why should I help you? You haven't exactly endeared yourselves to me lately."

Tim stepped in. "We think there might be a connection between your I-can't-be-bothered petty street thug problem and the Frankfort murders."

Duffy shifted his gaze between them. "Why would you think that?"

Raylan saw straight through the superficial puzzlement to the keen interest underneath. He sidestepped the question. "Mr. Duffy, we are in the business of law and order. And today, that means helping you. A turf war or whatever it is that's going on with your buddies in Frankfort – it just means work, work, work for us. We want to put a stop to the killing and get back to Marshal stuff. All this shooting is making us edgy."

"I can see that."

"A name."

Duffy reached over and flipped open his laptop. "Who's the girl?"

"Loretta McCready," Raylan stated through his teeth.

Duffy looked askance at the Marshal, commented mildly, "I believe that this is more than just business to you, Raylan."

"A name."

A scribble on a piece of paper, name and address, and Raylan and Tim headed for the door. Tim turned to hand back the towel and ice but Duffy waved him off. "Keep it, please. I insist."

* * *

It was dark when Raylan and Tim arrived at the address. The number was painted in red on an old door in the side of a commercial building behind a pawn shop. Raylan liked the look of it – it fit his idea of the apartment of a man one up the totem pole from heroin street vendors. He knocked, and again, then eyed the lock and stepped back to give himself room to kick the door in.

"We don't have a warrant," Tim reminded him, knowing he was wasting his breath.

"I don't want to arrest him," Raylan replied.

"Just…wait." Tim held out a hand. "We are so far out of our jurisdiction right now." He pulled a pouch from his pocket, tipped some tools into his hand and picked the lock.

Raylan tut-tutted, voiced his concern about the neighborhood, "This fellow ought really to lock his door. It's not a great area."

"Or get a better lock."

Raylan pushed the door open and called out a name. Tim stepped in behind him, turning backward for a last check of the street, collided with Raylan who'd stopped short, just inside.

The two men stood in what was a one-room flat, a couch, TV, table, kitchenette to one side, bed against the back wall, body on the floor, a neat bullet hole between the eyes.

"Well, shit," Raylan exhaled.

Tim patted him on the back, short commiserating slap. "At least he ain't lying to you." He pulled his phone and dialed the Lexington Police.

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

There were no flames; he was expecting flames – something more meaningful and ravaging and violent, something tangible to scream at and fight with. Tim pulled to the side of the road behind an ambulance and put his truck in park and stared out the windshield at the smoldering ruin. The house was destroyed, completely – no mattress, no dog shit, no peeling paint, just a gurney with a body bag on display in his headlights and the movement of unnecessary rescuers, volunteer firefighters, paramedics, an over-trained cleanup crew, a flock of crows.

He turned off the engine, opened the door and stepped out, and the smell hit him, burnt flesh. It overwhelmed, engulfing him in a forgotten hell a world away. He sank down behind his truck and dropped his head in his hands, trying to hide from the village scorched into his memory, blackened bodies heaped, adult and child, into a monument left for the coalition troops by the Taliban, retribution for aiding the enemy. He grabbed fistfuls of his hair and hit his head against the side panel trying to clear the image.

"Tim." Footsteps.

_What does he want? They need strong arms to start digging graves? Fuck._

"Tim?"

_Just give me a minute! Dammit!_

"Tim," Raylan spoke his name quietly this time, squatting down, a hand out tentatively to settle on Tim's shoulder, a little shake. "Buddy, you okay?"

"I can't. I can't right now. Fuck! Just give me a minute!"

"Okay." Raylan sat back on his heels, quietly watching. Art walked up and opened his mouth to say something and Raylan stopped him with a gesture, turned back to Tim and tried again, speaking calmly, "We found your girlfriend, Tim. She's okay, hiding in the field. She wasn't in the house. I didn't want to scare her – hat, you know? I need you to come get her. I think she'd be okay if she saw it was you coming for her. Can you do that for me?"

Tim looked over, nodded slowly, dazed. "Okay."

"Okay." Raylan pushed himself up, a glance at Art, and held out a hand, helped Tim to his feet. "You can do this."

"Yeah." Tim nodded again, rubbing his face, hands through his hair. "I'm fine."

Raylan clearly didn't believe a word of it but led the way, circling the house and into the woods, occasionally a worried look back.

Following blindly, stumbling, Tim fixed his eyes on the words US MARSHAL printed on Raylan's jacket. If Raylan had walked off a cliff, Tim would have fallen right behind him, following him down. He counted in his head to the rhythm of their footsteps, forcing his breathing to join in with it and wrestling his errant memories under control. It had been a while since he'd thought about that village. There was a narrow beam of clarity on the overcast night coming from the flashlight Raylan was carrying. Tim longed for the moonlight he had the previous time he walked through those woods, wished he could see the trees better. Trees were Kentucky for him.

Raylan indicated down a row and Tim waded in, found pigtails and collapsed cross-legged in the dirt in front of her. She crawled up into his lap and grabbed his hair and started kneading. The tactile warmth of her was calming. She didn't let go until they were halfway back to Lexington and she was finally asleep.

Raylan and Tim didn't exchange a word except what was necessary until they had Mary safely tucked away with the disheveled and shocked case worker, pulled from her bed at 3am. Art met them at her house with Tim's truck and arranged for a security detail then followed Raylan back to Tim's place.

"That's a nice truck to drive," Art commented dropping the keys back in Tim's hand and an arm around his shoulders. "I appreciate you riding with Raylan and looking after that little girl."

Tim thought it made a convenient excuse for everyone and was glad to play along. "No problem," he replied looking at the ground.

"Could sure use a drink after that scene," Art hinted, sending a silent command over to Raylan for a dance partner. Raylan nodded at the house and Art took it that he was game to join him, nudged Tim, "Invite us in or you're fired."

"Yeah, buddy," Raylan added some pressure. He gave Tim a shove along the sidewalk. "I know you have bourbon in there. Be a good boy and share."

"How could I possibly say no when you two ask so nicely?"

"We won't wake Miljana, will we?" A practical question from Art, the married man.

"She sleeps like the dead. You could shoot at beer bottles in the bedroom and it wouldn't disturb her."

"You've tried it?" Raylan inquired.

The familiar head tilt and drawl. "Just the other night. I was restless."

A bottle of bourbon, three short glasses and they settled in Tim's living room, none of them interested in sleep, talking over the situation in low voices.

"We're wading out deeper and deeper, gentlemen," said Art, "I think it's time we took what bits we have to the DA's office."

"And tell them what?" Raylan demanded in an almost-whisper. "Preston has pleaded guilty to second degree murder. We're going to suggest he's lying? We don't have anything to back it up. I'll tell you though, I want to be there when they break the news to him about Billy. His face might tell us more than his mouth."

"They won't, Raylan." Tim ran his finger over the rim of his glass and licked off the trace of alcohol. "There was no mention of her in any report. They're not married; he's not the legal father. The house is in her name. _His_ address is in Lexington. We only have her word that she even knows Preston. If he's going to find out, it's going to come from us. I'd still like to know how you found her."

"How _did_ you find her, Raylan?" Art repeated the question.

"I went to a bar that Preston frequents. Asked around. Got Billy's name, with a little nudging," he added coyly.

Tim frowned. "Then somebody else could've, too."

None of them doubted a connection.

Another drink and Tim continued, "Do you think someone might've followed me this morning when I drove them home?"

"No," Raylan answered firmly, reassuring. "I think they knew all along – whoever _they_ are. I think Billy knew more than she was saying. I think Preston's being pressed. I think I have more to talk to Loretta about than 'what the fuck are you doing?' I think I'm getting to the bottom of this if it kills me."

"And everyone else in the vicinity in the process," Art added, a wet shower of sarcasm. "You two go see Loretta. I'm going to visit Mr. Stanton tomorrow and break the news about Billy, offer him protection, see if I can get him to talk."

"Get a DNA sample while you're there," Tim suggested.

"DNA sample?"

"Prove he's the father. It might be helpful down the road."

* * *

Art hesitated at the door an hour later. "Tim," he examined his deputy carefully, "you alright?"

Tim nodded, avoided looking at his boss.

"When this is done, you and I are going to have a chat."

"Or I'm fired?" Tim jested.

"Sure. I like that," Art threw back and left.

He and Raylan walked to the car. Raylan leaned on the roof before he got in. "I'm a little worried about Tim. What was that tonight?"

Art huffed better than any of them and showed his talent to the fullest at the comment. "Raylan, I'm always worried about Tim. Keep up. And while I appreciate that you like to come to the rescue at the eleventh hour, a little prevention goes a long way."

"Was there a request in there?"

"Just keep an eye on him, will you?"

* * *

Tim closed and locked the door and crept upstairs to try and sneak a couple of hours sleep before the interview with Loretta. He curled around Miljana and lay awake, remembering a village and blisters from digging graves.

* * *

Raylan was waiting impatiently when Tim arrived at the lock-up. No one had come forward with Loretta's bail so finding her was easy. She was seated in a visitor's room, wearing orange and a frown, a tiger lily.

He walked in first, pulled out the chair opposite her, sat and looked her over, then took off his hat and placed it on the table. For her part, she kept it together, cool, watching him warily, hiding her surprise at seeing him. Tim stepped in after Raylan, stopped just inside the door and leaned back against the wall, already weary and his day just started.

"It was my impression from our discussion the other day, Marshal, that you and I had an understanding," Loretta addressed herself to Tim, her focus flickering briefly to Raylan then back. "Apparently your integrity is not something on which you place a high value."

Tim snorted, finding her attack amusing, narrowed tired eyes. "I never made you any promises."

"It was implied," she declared forcefully. "I had you settled in my mind as a man to keep his word."

"Loretta," Raylan interrupted. "I heard about you from Wynn Duffy not Tim, so stop ragging on him. I already punched him for _not_ telling me. He doesn't need to take shit for both ends of this."

She continued to glare at Tim, aware now of his split lip, and he held her stare, bored. "You want me to wait outside?" he asked her. "It's a sunny day and I'd just as rather not be here."

"You do as you please. It's not my business either way."

Tim reached for the handle.

"Uh-uh, Tim," Raylan turned, insisted, gritting his teeth. "Stay. There's something about the two of you in close proximity that keeps my head clear. You're like nails and a chalkboard. You grate on my nerves like Christmas carols in a mall in September."

Loretta frowned; Tim smirked, happy to be pissing them both off, and resumed his pose against the wall. He waited for his version of torturous mall Christmas carols, the soft words he anticipated would come next: How are you making out in here, Loretta? Is there anything I can do for you, Loretta? _Why did it come to this_ , Loretta? But Raylan surprised him. He pulled out the surveillance photo and slid it across the table for her to see – nothing to soften the blow.

She went perfectly still.

Tim opened the folder he'd carried in and pulled out a crime scene photo of the body from the apartment the night before and held it out for Raylan, letting him decide what to do with it.

"When did you get this?" Raylan asked him, looking at it then sliding it over next to the first, again no cushioning the blow.

"I stopped on my way over this morning," Tim answered. "Homicide was happy to give me a copy."

Neither Marshal looked at the other while they exchanged the information. They were both watching Loretta carefully.

Loretta was working hard to school her features. "Did Mr. Duffy supply his name to you?" She looked fiercely at Raylan, nodded at the photo of the body.

"Does it matter?"

Her face folded. "Did you have to shoot him?" she asked, anguish slipping out.

Raylan was taken aback by the emotion in her voice. "Was he your boyfriend?"

"Yep," Tim replied for her. "And for your information, we didn't shoot him. He was dead when we found him."

* * *

 


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Raylan reached out, his arm feeling like it was lifting the weight of the day all by itself, and pulled the crime scene photo off the table. He waited until Loretta had spent the few tears in her budget for it and wiped them away.

"Loretta, who is she?"

Loretta looked down at the woman's face in the car.

"I don't know."

"Loretta…"

"I don't know," she insisted. "I never met her."

"But you recognize her."

She had already given up as much and she knew it, acknowledged the truth with the tiniest nod.

"What is she doing in this photo?"

Loretta looked up, innocent for that second and pretty for it. "I don't know. I never saw her in Lexington."

"Where did you see her then?"

Loretta's frown deepened.

"We think your boyfriend, Danny, is dead 'cause of her. You know that, right? We can offer you protection, Loretta, if you can give us anything to use to charge her with. Anything. Where did you see her? Talk to me. If you know something and she suspects it then you _are not_ safe in here."

"And you'd better believe you'll be an even easier target when you get to prison," Tim added, glanced quickly at Raylan, waited calmly for a rebuke from him but it never came.

Raylan's only response was, "He's right," then he watched her hands twisting in knots in her lap, lips pressed down. "Talk to me, Loretta. We can help you."

Tim was getting impatient, pulled the pin and tossed another grenade into the room. "Billy's dead."

Loretta squeezed her eyes shut, breathed, "Phoenix?"

"She's safe – for now."

Raylan leaned back, examining the pieces set before him, put them together. "I wondered how Billy knew."

Loretta hugged herself, eyes pleading with Raylan for another road home.

"It was you that told Billy about the murders." He stared back, understanding it now, pointed a finger. "But how did _you_ know?"

A hair crack in the façade, she looked down at her hands working.

"Loretta, I can't protect you unless you tell me what you know."

She broke finally, spoke in a frightened voice, the truth gushing out, "I was in Frankfort with Preston that day. I was there. He never killed those men, _she did_." Loretta jammed a finger on the woman's face in the photo. "I saw it. And I told Billy he didn't do it and now she's dead and I told Danny and now he's dead. She was so upset, so I told her what I saw just to make her feel better. But now he's saying _he did it_. I don't understand."

Now that she had said the words aloud it seemed to loosen every part of her and she sagged on the chair, laid her head on her arm on the table.

"Loretta," and Raylan was all business, "Loretta, will you testify to that in court?"

She nodded, sideways across her arm, started talking earnestly. "I like Preston. He's a good man. He and Billy were real nice to me."

"He wanted you in the weed business, didn't he? All that experience," said Tim.

"He brought me out to the house and showed me around and suggested maybe Billy and I could handle the operation while he took on a new job for them. He didn't want Billy alone out there." She was paying out more tears and let them run their course. "I was looking forward to it. It was like home with the woods out back." She wiped a hand across her eyes. "What happened to Billy?"

"Someone burnt the house down with her in it," Tim summed it up coldly.

Loretta straightened stiffly back up in the chair, afraid, stared at him in horror.

"You saw her shoot those men in Frankfort?" Raylan reiterated, bringing her back to the point.

She moved her eyes onto Raylan again, spoke slowly, "I was across the street. Preston was going to take me back to Lexington, but he had to meet some men in Frankfort first and thought it would be a good thing to introduce me. He told me he'd take me out for something to eat after he was done and we'd talk business. He told me to wait. That woman, she walked in right after him. She never saw me. It was cold in the wind and I was tucked in a doorway." Her frown returned. "Preston _never_ carried a gun, Marshal." She looked hard at Raylan, a bit of courage returning. "I saw her point her gun and I saw her shoot those men."

Tim turned to leave. "I'll get the paperwork started."

Raylan nodded, his eyes never leaving Loretta's face.

* * *

"How did you know Loretta knew Billy?" Raylan moved over calmly, blocking Tim from pressing the 'up' button for the courthouse elevator.

Tim was tempted to blow him off, tired of the whole thing. _I read a report_ , he thought, _and another report_ , but it was simpler just to say, "Art had me dig into her life. It was an educated guess."

"And the boyfriend?"

"Now _that_ I knew for sure."

"Why didn't you tell me before I showed her the photo of him lying dead on the floor?" The calm was buckling under the strain.

Tim folded his arms and tilted his head, challenging. "Are you going to start something here? 'Cause I should warn you, I'm not going to just stand still and let you swing at me this time."

"No, I'm not starting anything. I just want to know."

Dropping his arms, Tim reached around Raylan and pressed the elevator button. "I was concerned that you would hold back."

Raylan pressed his lips together, nodded. "Okay, I get that." The elevator opened and he turned and stepped on. "Just don't do it again."

Tim pierced a hole through the back of the hat with a look, decided it best to drop the matter and followed Raylan onto the elevator.

Raylan waited until Tim was at the back, stepped out again and leaned a shoulder against the frame, facing in, preventing the door from closing and blocking the entrance, effectively holding Tim hostage. "And what happened to you at the house last night?" Raylan was determined to open every box today, peer inside. "And don't play like you _don't know_ what I'm talking about."

"Gee, Raylan, that's my best act. Take that out of my routine and I might get boring."

"I'll risk it."

Tim dropped his head, growling, then, sliding down against the back wall of the elevator, he dropped slowly to the floor, drew his knees up, rested his arms on them. "God, you're exhausting," he moaned.

The elevator had had enough of the delay and started buzzing, complaining about the open door. Raylan talked over it. "I'd just like some truth for a change. Is it too much to ask?"

"Shit, Raylan, get in before I shoot the control panel. I've already got a fucking headache."

Raylan moved and the door closed, silencing the buzzing. He pressed the button for their floor and glanced down at Tim. "Well?"

Leaning his head back and looking up at the ceiling, Tim recited, "I dug graves for six hours straight, buried women and children and old men in a little village set on fire for letting us have _water_." It was like listening to a kid do verb conjugation in Latin class, toneless, except the last word, water – a drop of emotion for that one. He slid his legs out straight, dodging any eye contact. "It's hard digging in that terrain. It ended up more like cairns." He waved a hand, helpless. "The smell brought it all back. Kind of like getting smacked upside the head with a…a…"

"…a loaded coal train," Raylan finished for him.

"Yeah, that works."

"Okay, I get that, too."

Tim didn't much care either way if Raylan got it or not, he was just grateful it was a short conversation.

The elevator stopped at their floor and Raylan held out a hand to help Tim to his feet. "This is getting to be a habit," he said lightly. "People are gonna talk."

"So let them," Tim grumped. "They already do."

* * *

Art arrived shortly afterward with two people in tow. He escorted them into the conference room then waved in Tim and Raylan. The introductions were made – the DA heading up the investigation in the Frankfort murders, a man Art's age, and a young woman, an intern. She gave them an eager smile.

The DA started it off. "So, as I understand it, you boys have a problem with my murder investigation, a problem with my witness, and a problem with my accused. Have I about got that right?"

"Yeah, that sums it up nicely," Art replied, turned to his deputies. "You get something today?"

"Yes, we did," Raylan answered, "but first, how did Preston take the news?"

Art sat down heavily. "Not well. It hit him hard – hard enough to knock loose a comment that he spent the rest of the interview denying."

Everyone around the table leaned in to hear it. Art continued, "He said: 'Why would she do that? I did everything she told me.' He never would tell me who _she_ was, but he went pretty quiet when I showed him the photo of the witness with Loretta. And he refused protection."

Raylan dropped the bomb. "Loretta said Preston was going to talk to the murder victims about his new job and brought her along to introduce her as his replacement in the weed business. She witnessed the whole thing."

Art gaped. "She saw it?"

"She saw it."

"Who's Loretta?" The DA was interested now, sitting up and looking between Art and Raylan.

"She's a young lady this office has had an interest in for some time now," Art replied.

"So has Lexington Narcotics," Tim added.

"And she witnessed the murders?"

Raylan repeated Loretta's version, ended with, "And she's prepared to swear to it in court."

"So it's my witness – a credible professional woman – versus your witness – a young lady who sells drugs for a living?" The DA looked at Tim to see if he got the reference right. Tim nodded. "How do you see that playing out in court?" the DA queried.

"Well, by itself it's not enough," Art took up the cause, "but if you add up all the other incidentals, point out the defendant's cute little girl whose mother was killed in a suspicious fire, put three Federal Marshals on the stand, who will be aiding the defense by the way, then I think we could convince a jury of reasonable doubt. I mean seriously, it's thug-on-thug. What juror is going to risk sending an innocent man to prison for low-life?" Art waited a tick then added, "You might get him for perjury."

Tim sent a bored look over for the lawyer. "And is it only me, or does anyone else find it odd that the company your witness was in Frankfort to do the books for only started up a few months ago and hasn't got any clients yet?"

The group digested that bit of information.

"And I still can't find one decent reason why she'd move to Lexington from Jersey," Tim added.

"Maybe she likes bourbon?" Raylan offered.

"I'm pretty sure you can buy bourbon in New Jersey. I've never been but…"

"Maybe she likes hillbillies?" Art suggested. The sarcasm from the Marshals was getting thick.

The DA studied the photo while the Marshals bantered. Eventually he said, "Find me something on the witness. Anything. In the meantime, Art, what are you doing with this girl, Loretta?" He tapped her blurry outline.

"She's in protective custody," Raylan replied.

* * *

"You're the shooter, aren't you?"

The intern had followed Raylan and Tim out of the conference room, leaving Art and the DA to decide where to go next. She had walked tentatively over to Raylan's desk, eyeing the two Marshals, then had broached the subject, still eager.

"I read the report. How close were you when you shot Tommy Bucks? It says you were sitting together at a table."

Raylan looked up, "You read well. It explains why they hired you at the DA's office."

Tim smirked.

She blinked then moved on, directed her attention at Tim.

"You were a sniper, right? In Afghanistan?"

Tim didn't even look up. "Yep."

"How many kills did you have?"

"Excuse me," Raylan interrupted. "Miss…?"

"Jane."

"Miss Jane, I don't what you've been reading, but Tim here was in _Afghanistan_. It's a _war zone_. There weren't any killing." Raylan shook his head, incredulous, and went back to his work.

She stood staring at Raylan, blinked again, turned and left.

Tim still didn't look up, said, "Do you think she believed you?"

"I really couldn't give a shit."

Tim grinned. "Thanks."

"Mm-hmm."

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

"I wish Rachel was back." Tim was grumpy despite the fact that Art was handing around refreshments at the end of the day. "I couldn't focus this afternoon and she always manages to say something annoyingly professional that guilts my head back into my work."

"And where's your head at today that you need Rachel around to wrangle it?" Art asked.

"It's nothing," Tim said, brushing it off.

"No, sorry, you opened this conversation, now you have to close it."

Tim let his eyes roam the room. Art wondered if he was looking for cover. Eventually Tim's gaze landed back on Art and he made a wry face that was at odds with the emotion in his eyes.

"I started thinking about all the kids involved in this mess. Then that got me thinking about all the kids I saw involved in that mess in Afghanistan and now I can't stop thinking about it." He waved vaguely east.

" _You_ were a kid involved in that mess in Afghanistan," Art pointed out, "so think about yourself there while you're at it."

"Not as young as pigtails."

"I think the name you're trying so hard to avoid is 'Mary.' I also know that you know that, and I know why you're pretending so hard like you don't know it."

Tim managed to hold his features steady and responded with, "What I don't know is why you're pretending like I should understand a word you just said."

"And now he's pretending he doesn't know what we both know he knows," Raylan piped in, joining the fray.

"I'm going to stop this before it gets too convoluted," Art decided, clearing the air with a hand. He sat in a chair opposite the couch where Tim and Raylan were slouching off a difficult day, eyed them both, settled on Tim. "I can reassign you," he offered sincerely. "Do you want off this case?"

"I'm fine."

"Okay."

"What about me?" Raylan demanded.

"I wasn't going to ask you, 'cause I knew you'd say no."

Raylan smiled. "You know me too well."

"It's a painful truth."

Raylan took a sip of his bourbon and smacked his lips. "Mm, that hits the spot today."

Tim took another sip to see if that were true, then another to verify his findings.

"So where does the DA stand on this?" Raylan questioned. "The two of you kept talking long after Tim and I cleared out."

"He's taking a wait-and-see attitude," Art explained. "He's going to wait and see if we can come up with something to make him give up Preston. He's got time. We got him thinking though."

"So what about the witness, the magical Miss Evert who appears here and there and everywhere, wherever there's a murder?" Raylan asked.

"We leave her in WITSEC…for now."

"At least we know where to find her," Tim commented. His phone buzzed and he studied the display then straightened up, alert.

"What?" Raylan leaned over curious.

Tim shook his head, texted something back then stood up. "Just a sec." He walked around to the fax machine and paced a tight line until a page spat out. He stood just outside the door, reading.

"Tim! Get your ass back in here and share," Art barked.

Tim walked back in, exasperatingly slowly, still reading. "Shit," he exclaimed, short and expressive.

"What?" Art and Raylan snapped in unison.

"She came through with something."

"Who came through?"

Tim finished the page then handed it over to Art who held it up between himself and Raylan so they could both read it.

"I couldn't find anything on that woman," Tim explained. "Even my friend at the FBI gave me nothing. And I mean nothing. She disappears from any records prior to 2006, so I called every contact I could think of – a friend at the CIA, a buddy in England, and a woman I worked with in Afghanistan, Army Intelligence. She got a hit on the woman on an Interpol database." He pointed at the fax. "Raylan's witness is from Israel, former Yamas – Magav."

"Why is she always _my_ witness?" Raylan demanded.

"What's Yamas?" Art asked.

Tim rolled a hand, painted a picture. "Israeli Border Police, and they kick ass. She's gotta have skills if she's Magav – weapons, and the hand-to-hand combat techniques they teach are pretty awesome. Says she was under investigation for drug smuggling. She disappeared sometime back in..."

"In 2004," Art read.

"Can we go arrest her now?" Raylan smelled victory.

"Interpol wants her, Boss," Tim encouraged, pointing at the page. "We got jurisdiction."

"Sure, why not?" Art faked a casual air. "I don't have any plans tonight. Let me get in touch with the DA. It'll be kind of fun spoiling his witness's credibility." He reached across his desk for the phone, a smug grin smeared unapologetically across his face. "I just wish I could be there in person to give him the news."

"I never thought I'd be so happy to be the one to throw a wrench in a murder trial." Raylan smiled for the room.

* * *

Raylan and Tim sat in a car and watched the house, waiting patiently for the go ahead.

Eventually Art pulled up behind them and the three men congregated on the sidewalk across the road from where the Marshals Service was keeping Miss Evert, the witness, safe from harm. The Chief pulled a folded paper out of his jacket pocket and waved it.

"Had to disturb someone's dinner at the DOJ who had to disturb someone else's dinner at International Affairs to get this. Wasn't too happy with me since Miss Evert, or Miss Roth or whatever her real name is, is not a high priority with our European friends. Then I told him she's a suspect in multiple homicides here in the good state of Kentucky. That got him moving."

They headed across the street and Tim split from the group at the path to the front door.

"I'll cover the back," he said quietly and disappeared around the side of the house.

"I'm glad he likes to sneak around. It's easier on my ego when he volunteers," Art commented, "then I don't have to admit I'm too old for that stealth shit."

They reached the door and knocked.

"Miss Evert," Raylan called out, "it's Deputy Givens from the Marshals Office. I need a word."

There was a good amount of silence for answer. Raylan knocked harder.

"Miss Evert?"

The door was unlocked when they tried it, the next step, and Art anticipated the worst. "How much you wanna bet she's gone?" he puffed.

They stepped into the front hall and pulled their sidearms as a precaution. There was enough out of place in the living room and kitchen to suggest a struggle but they were immediately suspicious. Art sighed comically, holstered his weapon and strode through to the back to let Tim in.

"This is the part where we're supposed to believe she was kidnapped by the angry Dixie hicks?" Tim drawled, doing a circle in the living room and admiring the staging.

"Apparently this is the soon-to-be-historic second time in the otherwise excellent record of the US Marshals WITSEC program that a witness's location has been compromised. Let's just be quiet and appreciate the significance of the moment." Art managed to sound angry and amused simultaneously.

Raylan didn't find any of it funny. Too annoyed to add any sarcasm of his own, he went with blunt and obvious. "Compromised be damned. Somebody tipped her off."

"Wasn't me," Tim deadpanned.

* * *

"It's such a _stupid_ expression," Tim snarled, the first thing out of his mouth as he walked in the door.

Miljana was used to this. Tim would stew about something on the way home or over his coffee in the morning or maybe even for years, carrying over from a time before she knew him, and finally, having fermented long enough, it would spill out in a tirade, as predictable as a tornado. He had even started ranting once in the middle of the night after a long and dull stake-out, too much time to think, about how learning to say 'please' and 'thank you' in another man's language could often mean the difference between making a friend or making an enemy. He had been particularly worked up about it and sat up teaching her proper Islamic greetings at 2am. She didn't have the heart to tell him that, coming from Serbia, she already knew them. She wasn't sure if his passion on that subject was fueled by humanitarian or practical purposes and decided it was probably a little of both. He was complicated that way if you bothered to clean life's dirt off of the windows and look in.

"What expression is stupid?" He was late getting home, just shortly before 11pm, and she waited until after he'd unpacked and flopped on the couch before opening the subject for a full discussion. She perched sideways next to him, knees drawn up, drinking her tea and watching his face.

"Loss of innocence or innocence lost – whatever it is. It sounds so nice and peaceful. What a con. No one _loses_ their innocence – it's stolen from them. Someone either sneaks in when they're unprepared or not watching or just fucking too naïve to see it coming and _steals it_ , or they get a gun pointed in their face – give it up or die." He pulled a finger and pointed it menacingly and childlike, in imitation of a gun, at his own face and she flinched at the example. Whether conscious or not, the pantomime was personal. "And you don't have to be an adult," he continued harshly. "Look at pigtails. They're running at her and grabbing handfuls of it and she's helpless to do anything about it. Even the people who're supposed to be protecting her are helpless." He slumped a bit after his rant.

"Who's pigtails?" Miljana asked, getting to the center of it with one short question.

He shook his head and she watched him start to shut down.

"No, no," she pulled and pushed, "no, no, no. You don't get to do this. Who is pigtails?"

He was unresponsive so she moved from verbal to physical, set her tea down, pushed one leg behind him and slid the other up on his lap, gripped his shirt and yanked him over so they were both lying down on the couch and he was resting his head on her stomach. She grabbed his hair in fistfuls and messed it.

It was a tactic he had no defense against so he gave in to it, drew his legs up on the sofa to join her and wormed an arm underneath her waist to hold on tighter.

"That's what she does," he said.

"What?"

"She does that to my hair."

"Who?"

"Pigtails," he replied, then corrected himself, "Mary," and told her about the little girl.

* * *

The DA dropped the charges against Preston the next morning. The disappearance of their only witness put a damper on the proceedings. He refused protection.

Raylan paced in front of Art's desk, Tim watching idly, eyes lidded.

"Okay," Raylan stopped, scratched his head, repeated, "Okay. So we worked all week on this. Tell me, what did we accomplish?"

"We got an innocent man out of jail, Raylan. That's going to have to be enough for us. The DA's office has opened a new file on our mystery lady and she's now wanted for questioning in connection with the Frankfort murders _and_ they're looking into a possible link to Billy's death _and_ the shooting death of Loretta's boyfriend _and_ the shooting that Loretta was involved in." Art shrugged. "They've even opened talks with Detroit to see how far up this goes. All in all, I'd say we accomplished quite a bit."

"So we're out of it, now. It's a criminal investigation," Raylan stated, disappointment evident.

"Your witness is still wanted by Interpol and I suspect there'll be a warrant issued on her here before long. You can look for her while the trail's fresh if you want, but just remember, we have other work to do, too."

"What about Loretta?"

"She's still prepared to testify and therefore is still eligible for the WITSEC program. We'll go forward with setting her up."

Raylan nodded, left abruptly.

Art peered over his glasses at Tim. "Don't you have some work to do?"

Tim got up and headed for the door. "Yessir."

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

It was a few days later and emotions were finally drying out from the last storm, and now Tim was watching a new one building on the horizon and Raylan was at the center of it.

The Feds had arrived and taken over now that the thin string of evidence was pointing to the involvement of a hired killer which led anyone who cared to put some imagination into it on a path to Theo Tonin's door and then through Detroit to the New Jersey mob. It was complicated. It was a turf war but on a scale that took it out of the hands of the DA and into the hands of a US Attorney brought in to oversee the investigation. Loretta was still an important piece of it and her Witness Protection application was hurried through and she was hurried out of Lexington and set up somewhere safe – a new life until they needed her and called her back to Kentucky for a trial. If there ever were a trial.

And this was the butterfly that flapped its wings in one state and started a storm in another, Kentucky, in the Lexington Marshals Office with Raylan at the eye.

Tim was desperate to keep out of this storm's path. So much so that he even agreed to accompany the caseworker when she took Mary to her new home. He was happy just to get clear of the office although his mind screamed against getting any more involved with the little girl. He didn't want to see her again – ever. She was so small, small enough to crawl through the cracks in his walls and get into the hidden spaces where he kept the snapshots of other children. And those snapshots he kept hidden for a reason.

Miljana convinced him to go. "There will always be suffering," she said. "It's not your fault and it's not yours to fix. But maybe you can make it a little easier for Mary this one day. Focus on that, not on what you can't change. Take ownership of that little bit of good that you're doing. That's who you are. You are not the people that are harming her."

So he checked his watch and packed up at the appropriate time to meet them and walked out of the office with Art's blessing and Raylan's eyes drilling a hole in his back.

Tim pulled up in front of a small house outside of Frankfort and helped Mary out of the truck. She clung to him and he clung to his walls. The caseworker had explained the situation. Preston was indeed Mary's father, the DNA confirmed, and he had filed for custody. He had found a job with some help from the caseworker and Children's Services had agreed to give him a chance, but they would keep a close eye on her for a while. Tim was there as a weathervane – to see which way Mary would lean when Preston blew back into her life.

They hadn't even knocked when the door opened. Mary turned her head, let go of Tim's hair and held out her arms for her daddy.

* * *

Art's door was closed, he and Raylan in a private war, but the blinds were up and Tim didn't need to read lips to know what they were arguing about. He stopped just inside the double doors, not wanting to get any closer to the yelling.

Rachel was back, sitting with her right arm up and leaning on her desk, physically blocking out the drama in the Chief's office. She glanced up at the movement and Tim looked sideways at her with a meek grin.

"Do you know what this is about?" she whispered, eyes wide.

"Do you know how happy I am to see you back?" he answered, eyes wider.

She smiled and chuckled, a beautiful sight. "What do you say we go out for coffee?"

"I love you," he replied straight-faced.

"Quick, get the elevator."

Tim pretended to get a text, studied his phone, a serious look for effect, and dashed back out the double doors. Rachel followed casually and they laughed to shed themselves of the tension, vaguely hysterical, all the way down to the lobby and out of the building.

Hidden at a booth in the diner, Tim ordered some food to go with his caffeine and slid over into the corner of the seat to try and get more comfortable.

Rachel watched him, bemused. When he was finished slouching she decided he didn't look any more relaxed than when he started. "Can I ask now?" she teased. "Are you comfortable?"

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Okay, what did I miss?" she inquired. "Art yelling at Raylan – that's to be expected. But Raylan yelling at Art?" She let her eyebrow convey her surprise.

Tim explained the back story, all about the witness and the subsequent investigation. Rachel was an excellent audience, well versed in the machinations of law and justice. He gave her the bare bones of it and she let her experience add the meaty details.

She shook her head when he told her about the disappearance of the witness. "So the witness was the murderer and the murderer was the witness. Interesting."

Tim nodded, working his way through a sandwich.

"So what happens now to Loretta? And is that what has Raylan so worked up?"

Tim nodded again, swallowed a bite almost whole to try and answer the question for her.

"For heaven's sake, Tim, chew," Rachel scolded. "My Heimlich is rusty and believe me I'm in no hurry to get back up to the office."

Tim glared at her but chewed the other half of the mouthful more thoroughly, then said, "The AUSA and Loretta have requested a rather unusual clause in her WITSEC agreement. We were informed about it this morning."

Rachel waited patiently for him to finish.

"They've asked that a certain Deputy Marshal be denied access to her location."

"Oh," Rachel's face reflected her feelings, sympathy for the man. "Raylan won't take that well."

"Apparently not."

"I understand it, though. He's practically family to her. It's a risk having him know."

Tim nodded but kept his opinion on the whole mess to himself. "You're not allowed to go away anymore," he pouted, changing the subject. "The place falls apart."

"Tcha," she brushed off the compliment.

"How was the training?"

"Boring, thank you. I'm glad to be back, even with the office in meltdown."

* * *

Raylan was gone by the time they returned and the office was drenched in an uneasy quiet. Art was still at his desk, but sitting now and with his back to the room. Tim and Rachel tiptoed back to their chairs and stuck their heads deep into some paperwork.

Art called Tim into his office at the end of the day and leveled a serious look across his desk. No polite preamble – he got right to the point. "You are not, in any way, to help Raylan get information about Loretta. Is that clear enough for you? The shit you will be shoveling if you disregard this order will be so deep around you that you will still be smelling it when you're my age. Got it?"

Tim nodded.

"And be aware that I will be beside you shoveling and really, really unhappy about it. Do you understand what I am saying?"

"Uh, yessir."

Art turned and faced the wall again. Tim took his cue and left quickly, grabbed his jacket and keys and high-tailed it for the door. He slowed down passing Rachel, pointed and said, "If you're not here tomorrow, I'm going to hunt you down and kill you," all surly and his eyes smiling, "slowly."

She smiled back. "I missed you, too."

Raylan was waiting by the truck.

Tim jammed his hands in his pants pockets, slouched forward with a frown and dropped his head, a good imitation of a little boy caught telling fibs.

"The answer's no, Raylan. Don't bother asking." He brushed past him to unlock his truck.

Raylan grinned and responded, "I've got all night if that's what it takes and I know where _you_ live."

"Fine by me," Tim snarled. "I've got training in patience and resistance, and I need more practice saying _no_."

* * *

Miljana could hear them arguing from the porch – Tim with his aggravating monotone responses, empty of any feeling; Raylan punctuating words, edgy, demanding. She tucked herself out of sight beside the door. It had been left ajar and she could listen and she did, a little guiltily.

"No, Raylan, I won't tell you where she is. So stop asking."

"It's not your decision."

"I couldn't agree with you more."

"Then tell me where she is."

Tim: "Should we order some pizza? I'm getting hungry."

Raylan: "Where is she?"

Tim: "Pepperoni?"

Raylan: "Tell me."

Tim (slowly): "I...don't...know."

"Sure you know. Tell me."

"No. I won't 'cause I can't, 'cause _I don't know_. I made sure I didn't find out. I don't know where she is, Raylan. Ask all you want."

There was a pause and Miljana pictured Raylan reacting to that statement, pulling his head back, furrowed brow, wrinkled nose, distrust, annoyance. "This is bullshit," he finally spat, beginning to lose patience.

"Call it want you want. I call it smart. If I knew, I'd end up telling you. I took that option out of the equation."

"I don't understand you. Why not tell me?"

"You'll go see her."

"Why wouldn't I? I'm invested in this one."

"And you don't see the problem with that?"

"I'll be careful."

"That's not the problem, Raylan."

"Well, then enlighten me, Tim. What is the problem?"

Tim hedged the question with a scrap of the truth, "This request came from her, not the AUSA."

"What? Why?"

"I'd suggest you go ask Loretta but that would probably just piss you off."

"This is stupid. And I'm already pissed off. Why would she request that?"

Silence.

Raylan repeated himself, more forcefully. "Why?"

"Let go." A warning.

"Why, Tim?"

And Tim snapped. "Because you _shame_ her, Raylan." Finally there was some emotion in his voice, more than Miljana had heard in some time. "Every time you see her you're rubbing her nose in it, in all the shit she's done wrong. The weight of it's not helping her. Fuck, you never felt like that before? Like you couldn't possibly make it right? The disappointment in yourself, you could drown in it. She's drowning, Raylan, and the Federal Government has just pulled her out of the deep end – given her a clean slate. Just leave her alone. Maybe this is her chance."

"I _never_ said I was disappointed in her."

"It's not about you – it's about her. Fuck!" Tim was yelling now. " _You_ can't fix this. You can't ask _her_ to fix this. She has to do it for herself. _Leave her alone!"_

"You're not going to tell me?" Raylan's voice was whisper-soft now.

"No. For the last time – NO!"

The silence was a loaded gun. A moment later the screen door flew open and Raylan stormed out. He stopped himself when he saw her standing there, said angrily, eyes boring into her, "You in on this? Don't tell me he hasn't talked to you about it."

She smiled in empathy, close to tears. "Not this." She shook her head, lost in her own defeat. "It's a revelation."

Her answer confused him and he left without another word.

She stayed on the porch, watched Raylan drive away, listening while Tim took his anger out on something inside. She dropped her head back against the house and cried her frustration silently.

* * *

 


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

Raylan pulled into Noble's Holler late on a Sunday. The diner was closed at 6pm but through the window he could make out Limehouse behind the counter. He walked across the lawn and up the steps and knocked lightly before letting himself in.

"We're closed early today," Limehouse called out, not looking over.

"I heard you could get a drink if you asked politely."

Limehouse glanced up and grinned, replied good-naturedly, "Marshal, it's been a long while since you last visited us. What brings you this way?"

"Oh, I'm sure you already have a pretty good idea."

A quick nod and a simple, "Loretta."

He reached down and pulled out two glasses and a half-full bottle of whiskey and indicated the stool in front of him. He poured liberally, leaned on the counter and broached the topic. "I assume you know where she's at? Is she okay?"

Raylan shook his head, couldn't quite hide the disappointment. "It was one of the conditions of her agreement. I'm out of the loop."

"Too much like family, I reckon."

Raylan didn't respond to that, didn't ask how Limehouse knew about Loretta, didn't care at this point, took a hard drink and held out his glass to be filled again. "She couldn't have taken the money with her," said Raylan, watching the amber climb nearer the rim. "Ill-gotten gains are disallowed if you agree to protection. She wouldn't have mentioned it – it'd be forfeit if she did. They keep a strict eye on any accounts and they check through what you're bringing with you."

Limehouse searched Raylan's face looking to confirm what he suspected was being proposed. All he could see was a lingering bitterness which suggested nothing and anything – it was always there. But he understood the connection between Raylan and Loretta and he knew this Marshal well enough by now to speak directly. "But you can get it to her," he stated.

"I believe I can."

"I'll gather it up for you then. Give me a few days. It takes a while to put together that kind of cash." Limehouse chuckled, shook his head in disbelief. "We make strange bedfellows, Marshal. I'm amazed that I'm willing to trust you."

"Ditto." Raylan raised a glass to toast the absurdity, drank it down and walked slowly to the door, saying over his shoulder, "You know how to reach me."

* * *

No one called at the house on a Saturday afternoon unless they were selling something. Tim decided to ignore the first knock but a determined second knock got him off the couch. He tossed his book on the seat beside him and walked sullenly over to deal with the intrusion. He hesitated when he saw the cameo through the etched glass on the door. The outline of the hat was a dead giveaway. He sighed and answered the third knock reluctantly.

"What do you want, Raylan?" he greeted, cool, flat. "And no, I am not telling you where Loretta is. And I'm done arguing about it." Then he noticed the old cooler sitting at Raylan's feet and that ended the protests while he considered the implications. He licked his lips, wished he had stayed put on the couch. "You went to see Limehouse." It was a statement of disapproval.

Raylan raised his eyebrows, surprised. "How did you figure that?"

Tim gestured down at the old metal box propped on the door sill. "I took a cooler just like that into custody once."

The eyebrows went up a little higher.

"Long story." Long sigh, then Tim added, "I guess you'd better come in," and he stood back to let Raylan pass through. Tim kept staring at the cooler, couldn't take his eyes off it. "What the hell, Raylan?" He finally looked up at him. "Is that Loretta's money?"

"I was hoping you might get it to her."

"I told you, I don't know…"

"But," Raylan interrupted, holding up a finger to silence the denial, " _you_ can find out. I can't. Her file specifically says that I am not to be told where she is. It doesn't mention you at all." It was bitter and sly.

Tim leaned back against the wall, silent, slowly shook his head.

"Who else can I trust to get the money to her?" Raylan pushed.

"You want me to _take_ it to her?" Tim looked at Raylan in disbelief, both hands up to ward off trouble. "No."

Raylan pleaded wordlessly.

"No," Tim repeated weakly. "No, no, no, no." He cocked his head and huffed. "Fine, leave it with me and I'll figure it out."

Raylan grinned.

Tim returned a frown. "Are you going to follow me?"

"No, I'm not. I've been thinking about what you said…and I think maybe you're right. Maybe I'm too involved. I'm going to leave her alone."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Okay, but I'll be checking my mirrors, just so you know."

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't. But I won't be in them. You have my word."

Tim chewed on a lip, eyes back on the cooler. "And Raylan," he added, "I'm not dying for this money. The first old lady that threatens me with an umbrella even, I'm giving it up and running without a fight."

"That's fair."

Tim nodded, waved a hand toward the kitchen. "You want a beer?"

"Sure."

* * *

Twenty-four hours later Tim was on the highway heading west, driving non-stop through Kentucky into Missouri and then on into Kansas. It was well after midnight and he was running low on a second tank of gas and sipping the last of a second thermos of coffee when he finally stopped at a motel outside of Topeka, paid for a room and crashed for a few hours. Early the next morning he phoned the Marshal that he'd made arrangements to meet at Loretta's new apartment and a half-hour later he pulled in to the curb behind the woman's car.

She walked over to greet him when he stepped out of his truck and he handed her his identification.

"Well, Deputy Gutterson," she said, studying his id, "you made a long trip in one hell of a hurry and apparently for nothing. She's gone."

"What?" Tim stood gaping.

"I called it in just now. We're starting a search. But she's gone. No sign that she was forced. All of her personal things are gone with her and the apartment's neat as a pin."

Tim squeezed his eyes shut and he walked a tight, angry, frustrated circle. "Fuck."

He went through the motions of concern and interest but he had no intention of staying to help with what he knew would be a futile hunt. He turned down a polite offer of a coffee and got back on the highway as soon as he'd filled the tank.

He drove just out of town, pulled over and eyed the cooler. It was old and solidly-built – no one made them that well anymore – and someone had managed to rig a latch into the metal framing and lock it. Digging around in the toolbox he kept in the back he pulled out a crowbar and pried at the lid. It came off with a little work and he stared at the cash then dug into it. There couldn't have been more than $50,000, cleverly stacked with wads of paper to make it seem like more at a casual glance, enough to make someone happy, but not nearly enough to satisfy the stories of the Bennett fortune.

Somebody, somewhere along the line, was lying. More than ever, Tim hated the entire convoluted Harlan crime family tree. An uninvited and tiny sliver of sympathy for Dickie Bennett jabbed him and he picked it coldly from his consciousness and flicked it away. He fitted the lid back on the cooler, put the truck in gear, pulled out onto the highway and headed east, driving fast to try and outrun his growing suspicions.

He survived on shit roadhouse coffee until St. Louis where he found a decent cup and filled each thermos full and kept driving. It was evening when he pulled up at the small house outside of Frankfort. He picked up the cooler and carried it to the door, and knocked with his boot. Mary answered. He had to turn sideways to see her around the load he was carrying. She recognized him immediately and held out her arms to be lifted. Tim gladly traded burdens, she was nicer to hold than cash, and Mary was happy, too, stuffed her hands into his hair.

Preston Stanton came to the door with a shotgun, awkward with it, lowered it quickly when he saw what the Marshal was carrying. "What do you want?" he demanded. "I already told you folk I don't want protection. I did everything she said I had to and she's gone now, right? I don't need to worry." He was working hard to convince himself, still trying to think well of the world.

Tim looked at Mary but spoke to Preston. "I've got about $50,000 in cash in this cooler. It's not clean money but it's _cleaned_ money." He kicked the metal container over the sill. "Unless there's something here you hate to leave, I think you and your daughter ought to clear out of Kentucky. I don't think it's safe for you here."

Preston eyed him suspiciously. "And what the hell do you want for it?"

"You can't buy what I want," Tim said flatly. "For this," and he kicked the money again, "I just want the two of you out of Kentucky. Take her somewhere new. I don't want to get the call to this address – not next week or next month or never."

Tim had nothing concrete to put weight behind his concerns, nothing but a gut feeling, but Preston could read the helplessness well enough in the Marshal's expression. It frightened him. He pulled the cooler inside and said, "Come on, sweetie pie, the Marshal has work to do and you and me are going on a trip."

Tim nodded, grateful. "I'll fix it with Children's Services, make sure no one comes looking for you." He handed Mary back, tugged a pigtail and smiled for her, turned and left.

It felt good to be rid of the cooler. Tim drove aimlessly, ended up just outside of Versailles at a dive that fit his mood. He plunked himself in the corner at the bar and ordered a first drink. When it came Tim went ahead and ordered a second. And when the bartender plunked that one down, Tim ordered a third. The bottle appeared on the bar next to the second shot.

"Don't be sick on my shift," he growled.

"Not a problem."

* * *

"We're closing."

Tim looked around blearily as the owner cranked up the lights.

"You hear me? We're closing."

The bartender sounded surly and likely he was. It was a long night for him. Tim nodded, settled up and headed for the door.

"You ain't driving, are you? I ain't supposed to let you drive."

Tim turned around, surly himself, said, "I was going to sleep in my truck. Is that okay with you?"

"Just be gone before I open tomorrow afternoon."

Tim didn't respond, shuffled out the door and across the parking lot fumbling with his keys. He slid into the cab of his truck through the passenger side door, aware of the owner watching from the bar, locked himself in and tipped over, asleep in minutes.

He woke to the shift in shading in the sky, gray from black, hinting at day. Chilled and stiff, he climbed out to stretch the kinks from his neck and back. The sun was coming up by then and he leaned against the front grille watching the light change, sipping on the lukewarm coffee left in the thermos. Pulling out his phone he scrolled through his contacts and considered calling Raylan, changed his mind after thinking it through, unable to come up with a good enough lie. He called home instead, squatted down on his heels, eventually settling on his butt on the pavement and talked to Miljana for most of an hour. He hung up reluctantly but he'd decided on his next move while listening to her voice and was eager now to get on with it. He stopped for a quick breakfast then drove south to Harlan.

* * *

 


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

Tim got onto the Interstate and went into autopilot. The number of times he'd had to make this drive he felt he could've had a nap if his brain weren't working at hyperspeed. It just wouldn't stop running, doing as many miles as the truck. Every file he'd read, every photo he'd studied, each interview, each story, each confession or lie, the timelines, the personalities, the guilty, the innocent, the not-so-guilty and the not-quite-so-innocent, his mind struggled to set it all into some kind of order and finally, taking the exit to the Cumberland Gap, he concluded that there had to be multiple agendas at work all wound and tangled in knots around a shooting in Frankfort. No single thread could neatly tie it together or straighten it out. He would follow a string and end up holding on to a few different ends too many. Involve humanity and nothing made sense.

He drove the road toward Noble's Holler resigned to the fact that he'd never get satisfaction, nothing meaningful anyway, and he dropped this fresh mess of strings beside the other older piles stashed in neglected places in his memories, the piles with foreign names and grit on them. A man could go crazy thinking and he'd learned a few years ago not to go pulling at the loose ends of some events, afraid if he did that he'd never get free of them, entangled forever in doubt and regret and the cold truth of human nature. He was practiced at pushing things out of sight and he put that skill to good use once again.

He started paying closer attention to the roads when he drove into Harlan County, twisting and winding, and came finally to Limehouse's diner mid-morning. He peered through the windshield and wondered how to play this. This was Raylan's territory. Maybe Limehouse would shoot him for giving away his money, or Loretta's money, or whoever's money that was. But Noble's Holler seemed like a nice place to lie down and rest from Tim's view of the world, so he opened the door without a care of where this meeting might end and dropped his feet on the ground and took a deep breath of the country air.

The diner's owner was smiling, talking casually on the porch to some neighbors but warily eyeing the unfamiliar truck as it pulled in and parked. He flashed a subtle signal to his boys – be alert – watched Tim climb out, looking distinctly out-of-place but moving like he was at his ease being there. Limehouse relaxed, motioned an all-clear to his soldiers. He excused himself from the group, a friendly joke back to them as he stepped off the porch and sauntered over to the Marshal, admired the vehicle and shook hands with the man. Acting pleasantly surprised to see Tim, he invited him into the diner for some privacy.

"Deputy Gutterson," he spoke like a character out of the south, playing it up mischievously, "are you lost?" A slight bend at the waist to finish the picture.

Tim tucked his chin and grinned. There was something about Ellstin Limehouse that made him feel very young. "I've driven here a few times," he replied, "but I still had to concentrate not to make a wrong turn." He followed Limehouse up the steps and inside.

"It's the truth – the roads around here are tricky if you're not intimately familiar. I like being out of the common way, so as I always know when folks show up, they're here for a purpose." He fired up one side of his grill then walked to the fridge and got out some bacon and eggs. "You hungry, Deputy?"

"Uh, it's pretty much a constant state," Tim answered, hopeful.

"It's all that nervous energy that you got quietly burning. Hard to see it unless you're looking real close, but, boy, you are jumping – all the time jumping." He threw some strips of bacon on the hot grill and indicated a stool at the counter with his spatula. "Sit, sit. Coffee?"

"Please."

Limehouse hummed an old tune while he cooked and Tim watched, wishing this was his whole life just now. He was salivating and surprisingly calm.

After the two plates were fixed, Limehouse walked around the counter and joined Tim for breakfast, bringing the pot of coffee with him. They continued in a comfortable silence until both had licked every speck off their plates and were sipping, satisfied, at a steaming mug of coffee.

Tim spoke first. "I think your diner is the only thing that might convince me to move to Harlan County."

"The only thing?" Limehouse inquired. "Why, it's beautiful in south Kentucky."

"I admit – I'm biased. A lot of bad things start and end in your part of the state. I can't shake the hard feelings."

"Mmm." Limehouse took a minute to consider Tim's statement then opened the discussion. "Why are you here, Deputy?"

"Money."

"You need money?"

"Nope." Tim looked down at his empty plate and wished for more. He pushed it aside to clear the yearning and collected his thoughts, turned in his stool to face Limehouse and said, "I gave away the $50,000 or so that was in that cooler. I just want you clear on where the money went so you won't come after Raylan about it."

Limehouse looked calmly back. "Where did it go?"

Tim raised his eyes up to the right expressively. "To a charity of my choosing," he answered coyly.

"Not to Loretta."

"Nope, not to Loretta. She's gone."

Limehouse nodded, the news clearly not a surprise.

Tim asked the question he'd wanted to ask since Topeka. "She already got it, though, didn't she? The money."

"What'll it do for you if I answer that question?"

"For me? Probably nothing. I'm just trying to figure out what to tell Raylan." Tim was being baseline honest and the lack of caution wasn't bothersome, and that bothered him.

Limehouse stacked the plates and slid them down the counter, his movements covering something. "Where do you suppose she's gone?" he asked after a moment.

"You mean you don't know?" Tim wasn't sure whether to believe him.

"As long as the money was in my keeping, Deputy, I could tell you where it was and where the owner was, but now…" He opened both hands, empty.

"She couldn't have come for it herself. Who did she send?"

Limehouse smiled, secretive now, answering half the question.

"Okay, fine. Just tell me this much – man or woman?"

"Woman." Limehouse watched Tim's reaction carefully. "And what does that tell you?"

"What does that tell me?" Tim searched up and down the length of the diner looking for elucidation. He plucked his answer from his memory. _"'All things truly wicked start from innocence,'"_ he recited.

"Are you a poet, Deputy?"

"Nah, I'm terrible with words. I'm just quoting. That's Hemingway for you. Telling it like it is."

Limehouse chuckled, deep and amused. "I didn't know Loretta when she was innocent, before all this happened, but I believe she was at one time."

"I can't remember ever being," Tim scowled.

"Now as you mention it, I can't neither. I guess we're both lost men."

They sat sipping their coffees a little longer then Tim stood up and complimented the chef. "That was the best breakfast I ever had. _Ever_."

"Feel like the condemned man?"

"A little bit." Tim looked at the floor. "What are you planning on doing about your money?"

"Nothing. Wasn't my money," Limehouse replied. "None of it. What are you going to tell your Marshal friend?"

"I don't know."

Tim walked out of the diner to the deep sound of Limehouse's laughter and he couldn't help but chuckle some with him. It was kind of funny.

* * *

He had one more stop to make, this time in Lexington at a fitness gym for women. The young lady on the desk smiled sweetly and informed him that he was a man.

"You're a man," she said.

Tim blinked once, twice, said, "Thank you for clearing that up." He pulled out his US Marshals identification. "I just want to ask a question or two."

"Oh," she said, perky. "I thought you wanted to sign up for a class."

"No."

"Okay, what do you want to know then?"

"Do you teach Krav Maga?"

"Yes, we do," she replied happily. "I'll get you a schedule." She swung around in her chair and started rifling through the brochures stacked behind her.

"Uh, ma'am, that won't be necessary."

She turned back, disappointed.

Tim blinked again, but didn't waste his breath pointing out the obvious. "Just one more question – do you recognize either of these women?"

The receptionist took the photos he was offering and smiled blindingly. "Why, sure I do! They're regulars."

* * *

Raylan was heading for the door when Tim walked into the bullpen.

"Tim, follow me out. I want to ask you something."

He reached out to stop Tim's progress but Tim dodged him.

"Later," he said brusquely, brushing him off. He strode past and into Art's office without knocking, Raylan watching and curious. "Chief, got a minute? I need to talk to you."

"Oh shit. Again? I hope it's personal. Tell me it's personal – I don't think I can take anymore of your professional problems. I'm still trying to get over the last one. It was like you threw a grenade at me and no one bothered to yell 'duck.'" He slammed the drawer of the filing cabinet shut and dropped his hands on his hips when he noticed that Tim had closed the door. "Do you really need to close that door?"

When Tim nodded, Art changed tack. "Are you sure you need to talk to _me?_ Rachel's back – she'll listen."

"Grow up."

"That's my line."

"Loretta's gone."

The silence and stillness that followed his statement reminded Tim of the seconds after a real grenade or mortar blast, that point where time stands still while your body recovers from the shock of an attack then a sucking back into the void of noises and thoughts and feelings and only then can you start to react to it. He had a bit more experience with that sort of thing than Art and took point on the recovery.

"You'll probably hear about it soon enough – I'm surprised you haven't already. They started a search," Tim said into the empty air.

"I've been busy most of yesterday and all this morning with that mess up in Covington. I haven't gotten to my messages yet and it's already well after lunch." Art collected himself, digested the news then narrowed his eyes. "How did you know about it?"

"You really don't want to know how I know."

"Does Raylan know?"

"About Loretta or about how I know?"

Art threatened to hit Tim with the file he was carrying. "About Loretta," he snapped.

"No. At least I don't think so." They looked helplessly at each other. Tim added, "Doesn't it feel like we've had this conversation before?"

"Yes, it does. Numerous times." Art took a step forward and stopped, then took a step over to his desk and stopped, threw his arms in the air. "I thought you were on vacation for a couple of days?"

Tim shrugged.

"You went to see Loretta," Art puzzled, "for Raylan?"

Tim wagged his head but didn't exactly answer. "There's more," he offered instead, knowing it would be distracting enough to get Art off of this line of questioning.

"I don't want to hear more."

Tim stared, wondering if Art were serious.

"Okay. What is it?" Art sank into his chair.

"Raylan's witness and Loretta, they knew each other before all this started. I'm sure of it."

"So this definitely wasn't a vacation and you _did_ just go visit Loretta for Raylan."

Tim grimaced.

"What else you been doing then, Tim?"

Tim opened his mouth to explain but decided to keep it simple, replied, "I've been stumbling around, just like we've been doing all along with this."

Art leaned back in his chair groaning. "I should've stayed in bed this morning." He looked at Tim, calculating, said, "Do you have something you can do to keep yourself out of the office until the end of the day?"

Tim thought about visiting the case worker at Children's Services. "Yeah."

"Meet me at Molly's at quitting time, bring everything you got. I'll bring Raylan. We'll talk. Maybe bourbon will help. Now git. Quick – before he comes back. I don't want to deal with this right now."

* * *

 


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

Raylan was trying to make sense of what Tim and Art were telling him when the waitress stopped at their table to take their order. Art indicated a round of bourbon but Tim waved him off, asked for a beer instead, earned himself an incredulous look from the other two.

"You a bit hung over today?" Art asked, more concerned than sarcastic.

Fortunately, Raylan asked a question at about the same time that Tim was more willing to answer. "How did you figure out they knew each other?"

"Narcotics had a stack of photos of each of the known dealers in Lexington," Tim replied. "One of them showed Loretta walking out of that gym. I guess they'd followed her around for a day or two. I remembered reading Krav Maga on the sign on the door."

Raylan worked his face into contortions trying to make the connection. "Do you have a photographic memory or something?"

"And what's Krav Maga?" Art piped in.

Raylan's question trumped Art's again. "No, I don't. Like I said before, I just have a system for remembering shit. Association."

"Too bad one of you doesn't have a photographic memory," Art mused. "It'd be handy in this job."

"And Krav Maga," Tim continued for Art's benefit, "is an Israeli hand-to-hand combat technique. The fact that they both disappeared within a couple of days, and then Limehouse saying that a woman had collected the money…" He shrugged. "I stopped at the gym on a hunch."

Raylan nodded absently, still recovering from the news.

"Makes sense, I guess," Art stated.

"Well, it does and it doesn't." Raylan lifted his hat off and set it on the table. He looked troubled and helped the impression along when he swept his hands through his hair and squinted trying to get a clearer picture of the thing. "Did you go _into_ Loretta's new apartment?"

"Yep, briefly."

"What was your impression – forced or did she go willingly?"

"I'd say she went willingly. Seriously, you know the elaborate system of passwords she and Limehouse had for that money – if she was in trouble, he'd have known. He didn't look the least bit surprised or worried that Loretta was gone. Actually, I'd say he looked rather happy about it."

Raylan shook his head, hard tight motion. "I can't believe Loretta would be part of what happened to Billy. And what about the boyfriend?"

"Maybe Frankfort or Jersey were responsible for those murders. I don't think she's capable of being part of that either." Tim wondered if he was just saying that to make Raylan feel better because truthfully he wasn't certain of anything. "As for the boyfriend – that was LPD's interpretation. If you remember, Loretta never actually said he was her boyfriend. It was me that assumed."

"I'd like to see more evidence – more than they both went to the same gym and took the same class."

"For a year," Art punctuated.

"I'll check the phone records at the lock-up tomorrow," Tim volunteered, "see if Loretta contacted anyone while she was in."

"No, you won't," said Art. "Raylan can do that if he wants to. You're on vacation. You'd better not show up at work in the morning or you're fired."

"Boss, I took my two days – yesterday, today." Tim counted them off on his fingers so Art could follow.

"Uh-uh. I've got you booked off for two weeks."

"I said _days_."

"Your girlfriend said _weeks_."

"My girlfriend?"

"I'm pretty sure it was your girlfriend. She came in Monday while you were gallivanting across the Midwest and requested it. I'm sure it was her – about this tall," Art measured in the air, "dark hair, don't dare say _no_ to her. She had a good reason and so I said, 'yes ma'am' and booked you off."

"She can't do that."

Art huffed. "What makes you so special that your girl can't dictate your life? I always get told when I'm taking holidays by the wife. Get used to it."

Tim stared at Art a moment then pulled out his phone and started texting.

"He's so naïve about these things," Art commented to Raylan. "It's kind of sad to watch."

Tim's phone buzzed a reply and he read it, held it up for them to see. "Oh for fuck's sake. She's laughing at me. I gotta go. I gotta sort her out." He stood abruptly, trying to keep the grin hidden, and threw on his jacket. He pushed in his chair and paused, saying to Raylan, "Look man, I think this is way more complicated than we know. I don't think Loretta meant for any of that shit to happen. There are two other players in this that are more likely responsible for Billy's death – Frankfort and Jersey. And I think Loretta's where she wants to be right now, for better or worse."

Raylan wasn't satisfied, brushed a retort with sarcasm. "You've been giving this some thought, have you?"

"Till closing time at a dive outside of Versailles," Tim quipped in reply. He shrugged and glanced quickly at Art, a little shame-faced for the confession, then he left.

"He didn't even finish his beer," said Art and frowned. "Must have been some bender last night while he contemplated Loretta's affairs."

"But Art, none of it makes sense. Why would she tell Billy if Miss Evert…?"

"You mean Roth," Art corrected.

Raylan pulled a face. "…if Miss _Roth_ was her friend?"

"Maybe they were both her friends and she sincerely was trying to make Billy feel better. Maybe the plan all along was for Miss Roth to sneak away from WITSEC and Loretta didn't anticipate Billy reacting like she did."

"Maybe. But then what about the shooting in Lexington? What's that got to do with anything?"

Art leaned back and waved to the waitress. "I think maybe a beer would go down nicely. Trying to sort through this case is thirsty work." After he ordered, he addressed himself to Raylan's confusion. "You know Raylan, maybe that shooting was completely coincidental, though I don't believe in coincidences. This is real life, not a TV show, and real life is messy – doesn't always get tied up all neatly with a bow. Shit happens that we can't anticipate. Loretta didn't pull the trigger that day, she was just there, holding a handgun she wasn't supposed to have and packing a walloping supply of heroin in little packages for sale. Bad timing, whether it's related or not."

"So you think Miss Ever…Miss Roth suggested Loretta squeal on her just to get her into WITSEC?" Raylan wasn't convinced.

"Who knows, Raylan. Maybe that was improvised. Hell, maybe they're in love. People do all kinds of stupid and crazy things when they're in love."

"You think they've run away together 'cause they're in love?" Raylan's disbelief was peaking.

"I'm trying hard not to think too much about any of it, Raylan, not until I have to, and I think maybe you should follow my example."

Raylan sat tapping his empty bourbon glass on the table, restless. "Miss Roth is still our business."

"You really believe she's still in the country?"

"No."

"Raylan, if you ask for a vacation anytime soon and you're planning a trip to a country that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the US – I'm going to be suspicious. 'Cause if they're smart, that's where they're going. And they strike me as smart."

* * *

Miljana had accomplished for the old cabin in Wolfe County what Tim's imagination had failed to see as possible. She'd made it pleasant. Gradually she'd directed him in some painting, some purchasing, and he kept the place in good repair. A new couch, some comfortable perches for the porch, and this trip she'd surprised him and had a new bed delivered with some tacit help from the neighbors.

"If I'm going to stay up here for more than two nights in a row, I need a good bed," she'd explained when he flopped on it, grinning madly.

"It's awesome," he smiled, grateful, patted the empty spot next to him. "Needs to be worked in, though."

The next morning, the sun was out full and heating an inviting spot on the porch. They gathered some old blankets and protected their coffee in thermal mugs and their feet in heavy wool socks and flopped on a wicker sofa she'd found in a yard sale. Tim eventually slid down in a luxurious heap until he was half lying across her and she cradled him at one end, heavy, but she didn't mind, his morning metabolism turned him into a furnace and the extra warmth was welcome.

She played with his hair with her free hand and closed her eyes when the sun shifted across her face.

"Tell me the worst thing you ever did," she said softly. "The thing you wish you could undo, or the thing you witnessed and wish you could go back and change, or the thing you did willfully and gladly and are ashamed that you don't feel differently about, even now."

There was a long break after she spoke, just the creak of the wicker when she shifted slightly and the sigh she let out later when she thought he wouldn't respond.

"Why?"

There was a singularity of heaviness in that one word.

She could feel the changing weight even where she held him, or imagined it, and compensated physically, lifted him slightly and ran fingers in his hair to let some air through.

"Because you have nothing to lose and everything to gain by doing it," she explained then tackled the problem in his language, some broad sarcasm, some pointed logic. "If you don't tell me, you don't trust me, then we have nothing, zero, nada, zilch – we're a sham and we won't last. If you tell me and in the process you realize that I'm not to be trusted then all you've lost is that – nothing, zero. If you tell me and I can be trusted, and maybe we even figure out how to stop you feeling about these things the way you do, then you've gained everything – peace of mind and trust."

She eyed him cautiously, forged on, "Speaking in terms of probability, the better choice between talk and don't talk is obvious. Your probability in winning anything by not talking is zero. Your probability in winning by talking is fifty percent, provided of course that there is an equal likelihood of me reacting badly or well to what you say."

"You're over-simplifying."

"I am. I haven't factored in that I've given you no reason to distrust me and the odds are weighted in favor of my reacting well, nor have I included that there is some gain to be had for you, even if I don't handle the revelations well, by just speaking them aloud. Tim, you need to start dealing with it."

"Maybe you should get into law."

"Maybe you should get into politics. You're always trying to distract people to get their minds off the real issue."

"Is this therapy?"

"No. This is you and me. If therapy happens along the way, well…"

She was done and settled in to watch his face. He closed his eyes to the scrutiny and turned his head and the silence hung like a man at the gallows. It seemed like hours passing. Eventually she dropped her head back and closed her eyes too, resigned. And that's when he started talking, and once he started talking he didn't stop, not that she wanted him to.

The rest of the day passed in a cold and brutal past; the night that followed, in a warm and healing present. The next day demanded some smoothing of the raw edges and his clothes felt a few sizes too big.

He approached his new world uncertainly, with humor as his shield. "That was great therapy last night."

She grinned and poured the coffee. "We might be on to something. Maybe I should do a special dissertation on the positive effects of sex for treating PTSD." She tapped a finger on her lips, thinking. "I'd need a test subject."

"I'll do it – _for you_."

"Of course – _for me_."

"It might be a hard sell though, in general."

"You think?"

It was her turn to lounge and she took full advantage of it, stretching across his lap under the blanket on the porch. He tucked her in the crook of an arm and ran his free hand under her shirt and across the soft skin of her waist.

"I'm so very happy," she purred.

He smiled.

"But when I think of all the shit you had to go through to get us here together on this porch and me so happy, I feel like I've taken on a debt I could never repay."

His face screwed up tightly. "That's just dumb. You can't think like that."

"Take your own advice then. You can't think like that either."

Tim frowned, suddenly suspicious. "Has Raylan been talking to you?"

A sphinx smile was her reply.

* * *

Loretta lay on her stomach on the beach, wondering at how the ocean air smelled so different from the mountains, less sweet, more sultry. Sara Roth was propped on an elbow beside her, ran a finger up Loretta's spine and produced a smile.

"Are you happy?" Sara asked.

"I could never be happier," Loretta replied, and without a smile the words hung sadly.

A breeze came across the waves and moved the palm fronds over their heads. Loretta glanced up at the movement, still in awe that she'd ever see such a sight, and a tinge of regret scattered with the sunlight across her face, a sharp longing for pine needles and oak leaves.

* * *

 the end


End file.
